Affairs Of The Heart
by E.Wills
Summary: Love is a complicated thing, particularly for two lovesick Viking teens. Throw arranged marriage and hormones into the mix, and things get messy. Figured it was about time I changed the summary. Is it vague enough for you? Good. I shortened the title this time around because, well, reasons.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** T for now, due to language and some mature humor. Will be M as the story progresses for mature sexual (not explicit) content.

Hiccup and Astrid are 18 in this fic. ROB and DOB are canon in this DU (deviated universe) storyline, but RTTE is not.

* * *

Growing up is hard; one simple fact that Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III knew painfully well. Never mind that adolescent years were enough of a struggle for the common man: hormones, relationship struggles, and the accompanying angst of self-discovery. Hiccup had to endure the additional woes of growing up a Viking; or rather, he had tried to. Years of one desperate attempt after another to find his place among his tribe had only earned him ridicule. Every valiant effort to fit in had only caused him to be further ostracized. In a culture that fostered conformity to rigidly upheld traditions and standards of behavior, being a forward-thinking individual was about as useful as a flightless dragon with no firepower. In addition to being about as _un_-Viking in physique as humanly possible, Hiccup's uniqueness was only further insult to his tribe, and to his family name.

_Shame?_ He was no stranger to it.

_Feelings of inadequacy?_ They were lifelong friends.

_Isolation and regrets?_ That relationship was an intimate one.

Living every day as the village embarrassment, surrounded by the constant reminder of everything he could never be, was a special kind of misery. His tribesmen took great care to point out his shortcomings daily. As if he was not already well aware of how he failed to measure up...

Then came Toothless, fortuitously shot out of the sky by his own hand. Watching the dragon plummet to the woods had filled him with a sort of nervous excitement. He could not have anticipated that everything was about to change in a most drastic and unexpected way. In the darkness, as the dragon's growl grew more distant and he fell from sight, befriending the Night Fury was not even on Hiccup's top ten list of outlandish possibilities.

How quickly they came to understand one another was surpising, though they were of vastly different species. Hiccup found it peculiar just how much he related to the dragon; more than he ever could relate to his own people. Toothless was the first soul to accept him as he was, with all of the flaws and no expectations. Theirs was friendship and a bond so real and un-shakeable, it was as if Odin, himself, had forged it. Together they changed the course of history, turning three-hundred years of rigid Viking tradition on its head. No one would have dared to believe that Hiccup, the village's greatest regret, would become the Berk's greatest triumph, taking down the Red Death.

Fortunately, he always had an aptitude for the unexpected.

In a manner of days, almost everything Hiccup had known about life on Berk reversed, and he had been unconscious for the greater part of it. He was finally accepted, _celebrated_ even. Hiccup was not sure how to initially process it all, besides standing around dumbfounded.

His father looked at him with pride, not disappointment; something Hiccup had desperately wanted, but had to flirt with death to obtain. How unfair, but it was simply the way of things. Hiccup and his father were both headstrong and seldom admitted to the other when they had been wrong. Their odd new dynamic was as close to a genuine apology and reconciliation as Hiccup could hope to expect, so he made peace with it.

He _did_ have friends, though. Finally. Not to mention, more admirers than he cared to count. He was considered a source of inspiration and authority on all things dragon. His intelligence was finally recognized, and his Hiccup-ness, appreciated. If anyone had predicted that any of these things would one day come to pass, he might have laughed himself to tears.

Yet, there he was, a chief-in-training. He was expert dragon trainer, commanding respect and awe as he sailed through the skies on the back of his loyal Night Fury.

Hiccup seemed to have weathered the storms of teenage angst and arrived to the sandy, sunny shores of maturity—but that was before he realized he had one more tempest left to navigate. The storm been looming on the horizon for a few years, creeping ever closer with ominous black clouds and rolling thunder. Hiccup was not sure he would survive it, his emotional typhoon incarnate. He was not sure he had the strength to deal with the wreckage of his heart against the rocks of her ambiguous feelings for him. For this storm took human form of a young Viking woman who was a fierce as she was beautiful. A walking enigma of feminine mystery that had stolen his heart years ago.

Hiccup, of course, was thinking about Astrid Hofferson.

For a brief time, shortly after the defeat of the Red Death when the transformation of Berk was still new and exciting, Hiccup had dared to think that maybe he stood a chance with Astrid. After all, she had kissed him in front of everyone, and he had taken that as clear sign that they were a couple.

Supposed to be a couple.

_Should_ have been a couple.

The way she had grabbed him then, crushing their lips together with an undeniable possessiveness; what other way was there to take it? Maybe, if it had been a one-time thing, Hiccup could have easily concluded that she was just happy he was alive: a sort of hero-worship thing. But their relationship, if it could even be called that, only seemed to progress from there.

Astrid had been his greatest supporter in founding the dragon training academy, and she was an integral part of helping defend Berk from Alvin the Treacherous and his Outcasts; as well as Dagur and his Berserkers. She and Hiccup had worked closely on integrating dragons into Hooligan life. True, the other teens helped, but Astrid was always coming to Hiccup directly with ideas, solutions, strategies, or just simply to talk about dragons. She sought his company far more than any of his other peers. Then, of course, there were the kisses.

He was as fond of the memories now as he was tormented by them.

No rhyme or reason existed as to when and why Astrid kissed him. If she was playing games with him, then only she knew the rules. Her attraction to him was vague at best, so he did not push boundaries or question her motives. He was just pleased to be the bewildered recipient of a kiss whenever she felt generous enough to give one. They never defined the terms of their relationship, but Hiccup had always assumed there was no need to put a label on it. Everyone else already believed they were together, and Astrid never protested the assumption. She never validated it, either. So, Hiccup went on blissfully believing he and Astrid had something a bit deeper than friendly races and a mutual interest in dragons.

They shared about a year of chaste kisses, warm smiles, and lingering glances, all without uttering heavy words like "boyfriend", "girlfriend", or "love." Then, with the turning of the seasons, Hiccup's happy illusion of shared affection crumbled like a shoreline eroded by the raging sea of reality.

At sixteen, Astrid had matured enough that some of the other young men in their tribe had begun to notice her. She had been surprised at first, because she had never received any obvious advances from anyone other than Snotlout, Hiccup, and the occasional brave attempt by Tuffnut. Fishlegs never dared. Then, suddenly, she was being seen by older boys as the beautiful young maiden that Hiccup already knew her to be. They wanted her company, finding her combat skills and dragon-handling equally impressive. One young man, in particular, found any excuse to hover around Astrid, making as much of an effort to know her as he could. Behind his back, Snotlout and Tuffnut mocked Astrid's burly new suitor, but she did not seem as turned off by his increasing presence as the other riders did. On the contrary, she and this boy seemed to have a genuine rapport.

Hiccup did not feel threatened in the beginning, since he did not think Astrid was the kind of girl to buy into blatant flattery. She may have been older, but she was still Astrid; still the girl who laughed at his sarcastic wit, punched him for stupidity, and sporadically kissed him for his rectitude. In Hiccup's mind, he and Astrid had a solid thing between them, even as undefined as it was. He had no reason to fear others' available perception of Astrid. At least, not until _she _started to see herself that way. He was alarmed when she began to look at her suitors in a new and intriguing light; it stung.

Hiccup had always thought what they had was steady and sure. Apparently, Astrid had never felt the same.

The change in their friendship became noticeable thereafter. Their time together was filled less with talk of dragons, and more with talk of boys of whom Hiccup neither knew well, nor cared to know. Astrid never spoke of them in a giddy, love-struck sort of way. That was simply not her style, and Hiccup was thankful for it. Otherwise he might have vomited. Instead, she spoke of various boys with a sense of admiration that she usually spared just for Hiccup and his accomplishments. Time did not diminish the twinge of irritation every time Astrid mentioned another boy in that same manner. She spoke of their style and demeanor, and how appealing it was that they still kept their battle skills sharp, even in a time of peace. They were just so masculine, so Viking, so everything that Hiccup was not, never was, nor would be. Hiccup took it like slap to the face, and it spit on everything he had thought they had been to one another over the previous year. Jealousy began to well up inside of him, forming a wedge between them that grew with each passing day.

Astrid became caught up in the allure of fitting in with an older, more mature crowd with similar interests other than dragons. She no longer sought Hiccup out with the same eagerness as before. Soon, the gazes between them ceased to linger, the smiles started to lose their familiar warmth, and the already unpredictable current of kisses dried up altogether. She still attended dragon training, and she was still Hiccup's best flying partner; but it was obvious that whatever spark might have existed between them was snuffed out.

Astrid was oblivious to the painful toll it was taking on Hiccup. She still called him her closest friend and confidant, which was rubbing salt into the festering emotional wound. He managed to keep their conversations light and friendly, even though he had stopped reciprocating when it came to confiding matters of the heart. She spoke and he listened, contributing nothing of equal depth.

No one had ever bothered to ask what happened between them, but Hiccup was aware that the entire village knew that he and Astrid were not as close as they once had been. Vikings did not have long, deep talks about their feelings outside close, intimate friendships. There was no punctuating a good cry by hugging it out with a neighbor or the odd fish monger. Hiccup enjoyed the respect for his privacy and the right to safeguard his feelings, but he noticed the stares as he walked by; and he noticed the low whispers that sounded suspiciously like his and Astrid's names.

The only person who attempted to breach the subject was his father, who was well meaning, but lacking sensitivity.

"Hiccup, a word?" Stoick asked one evening.

Hiccup had barely set foot in the house, and he was exhausted from a long day helping Gobber in the smithy. They had been working on bringing his design for multiple dragon feeding stations to life, and it was a full-time job. Without sharing the bitter details of his anguish with his old mentor, Hiccup had attempted to hammer out his frustrations on every project that had crossed his workbench. His muscles were feeling it.

"Dad," Hiccup groaned, "can't this wait until morning?"

He hoped avoiding his father's gaze as he made a beeline for the stairs.

"Son, I…I know you must have a lot on your mind," Stoick began, cutting him off

"That's the understatement of the year," Hiccup muttered under his breath.

Between running the academy, caring for Toothless and Sharpshot, increased responsibilities as the chief's son, drafting up village improvements, and the oppressive weight of Astrid on his thoughts, Hiccup was shocked his brain had not yet burst in his skull.

Stoick just ignored his sarcastic comment. He was well-practiced. "But I want to make sure you haven't lost perspective. It is important, as the future leader of our people, you're able to maintain a level head no matter what personal issues you're struggling with."

Hiccup knew, in Stoick's own way, that framing the conversation in the context of effective leadership was his way to ask, without asking, how Hiccup was handling the whole sad, pathetic situation with Astrid.

"I'm fine, Dad."

"Son—"

Hiccup ducked around his father and climbed the stairs two at a time, shutting his bedroom door without another word.

Toothless, who had been dozing on his stone slab, opened his large eyes and raised his head. Hiccup took a moment to greet his scaly companion before lying down on his bed, his eyes glued to the ceiling. His dragon gave a soft, sympathetic rumble in his throat, and Hiccup raised his head to give Toothless a reassuring smile.

"I'm okay, bud."

Toothless narrowed his eyes a little, and Hiccup knew his dragon could see straight through him. Odin damn his transparency.

The stairs creaked accompanied by soft thud of footsteps. Hiccup sighed. In the silence, he could picture his father standing outside his bedroom door, fist raised, debating with himself whether or not to knock.

After another brief moment, Stoick murmured through the door, "There are plenty of other dragons to tame, son."

Hiccup grimaced at his father's poor choice of an analogy and buried his face into his pillow. Stoick the Vast was not known for his eloquence in parenting, but he did try; although Hiccup sometimes wished he would not. He listened as his father's footsteps retreated downstairs, and though he would never admit it to the man, the small gesture of parental compassion was more of a comfort than whispers and pitying stares he normally received.

The sound of Toothless' slow, deep breathing threatened to lull him to sleep. He tried not to think of Astrid; but the harder he tried to push thoughts of her out of his mind, the deeper they lodged themselves there. He was in for another restless night.

But as he tried to fend off images of her hair, her eyes, and her smile, he found new resolve: he would no longer be an object of sympathy. If Astrid could move on without him, he would have to learn to move on without her. He was not a stranger to challenges. He met them, he overcame them, and Astrid Hofferson would be no different. So, he swore to himself that night, his father's attempt to discuss his relationship woes would be the first time, and the last. He repeated this vow as his eyelids grew heavy, closing them to a flash of blonde in a gentle breeze.

* * *

The following day, Hiccup held steadfast to his self-directed promise, when the sun was high and summer's heat had reached its peak.

"What's his name, again?" Snotlout asked, arms folded across his chest.

He watched Astrid fly her dragon side-by-side with her favorite suitor: the most impressive specimen of all the young men who hovered about her with an annoying persistence. Snotlout's favorite pastime to glare holes in their backs. Hiccup might have joined him once, but he was doing his best to be apathetic, patching the wound in his heart with a large piece of screw-it-all.

Instead, his attention was on Hookfang, who looked a bit worn down and lethargic.

"Stefnir Svenson," Hiccup answered, eyes locked on the Book of Dragons. "His dad is tapped into the trade network. His family is pretty well off."

"How do you know that? We hardly talk to the guy," Snotlout remarked, frowning.

Hiccup glanced up from the page on Monstrous Nightmares, charcoal pencil in hand.

"I'm going to be the chief someday-a fact, I know, just _thrills_ you," he replied, and Snotlout rolled his eyes. "It's my job to know these kind of things." He shut the book and patted Hookfang's snout, adding, "He has a cold, by the way. This isn't some new ability he's discovered."

The Monstrous Nightmare sneezed, sending scalding flecks of saliva through the air. Hiccup and Snotlout leaed aside as the oblivious twins were showered with it.

"Agh, _shit!_" Tuffnut hissed, frantically wiping the burning sputum from his skin.

Ruffnut yelped and mimicked her brother

Snotlout, meanwhile, barked with laughter. "Still, you have to admit it's kind of awesome!"

Hiccup shook his head and handed the book to Fishlegs, who tucked it into a satchel bag for safe keeping. At any given moment, either one of them had the tome in his possession. It was not that the other teens _never_ contributed their dragon knowledge to it, but Hiccup was afraid they would pass back the valuable book full of scribblings like "Zipplebacks rule!" or "Astrid's Nadder can suck it!"

It was best to not tempt them.

"I have to get back to the forge," Hiccup announced. "There's still two more feeding stations to build."

"Do you have to go?" Fishlegs asked, disappointed. He nodded at the other teens before whispering, "Don't leave me with them..."

Hiccup smiled. He and Fishlegs became closer as Astrid grew more distant, and it was nice to still have _someone_ with whom he could related. Someone who was not a dragon. He could bounce ideas off of Fishlegs an expect a smart answer. Snotlout and the Twins left much to be desired in terms of satisfying conversation. While Fishlegs was not as easy on the eyes as Astrid, he and Hiccup were near-equal when it came to intellect.

But in the sky, only Stormfly could compete with Toothless.

Hiccup hated the part of himself that still took pleasure in racing the Deadly Nadder, and allowing himself to care for even a moment. Among the clouds, he let Astrid in, giving her a opening to move too close again. In those short-lived bursts of happiness, he often forgot their problems. He continued to invite the friendly competition. If nothing else, he liked it when she chased _him_, for a change. Then reality caught up with them, and Astrid sped off to pursue the young men she had become so enamored with.

"They don't listen to me," Fishlegs said, eyeing the other teens warily as they roughhoused.

"What makes you think they listen to _me?_" Hiccup asked. "I just make suggestions in the hopes they're vaguely followed."

"At least your suggestions are _heard_. I think they might actually be deaf to my voice."

"You're the best authority on dragons, Fishlegs. You're the only hope he's got." Hiccup gestured to the ill Monstrous Nightmare. "Do it for Hookfang."

Fishlegs stared back at him, flat-faced

"You're surprisingly manipulative."

Hiccup grinned; it was the greatest amount of humor he could muster. Making himself vulnerable to one emotion opened the floodgates for others. Walking around partially numb was better than the steady onslaught of bitterness that accompanied thoughts of Astrid. On such a small island, she was not always avoidable. He hoped telling himself each day that he did not give a damn would soon make it so.

Fishlegs flashed him a tiny smile, which faltered with the gust of dragon's wings. The way Fishlegs's eyes darted between Hiccup and the individual behind him left no doubt who had just landed among them.

Astrid had the habit of showing up right when Hiccup was trying to convince himself she did not matter anymore. She just could not accept slipping into irrelevance, which was just so typical of her.

"Astrid!" Fishlegs exclaimed, a little too brightly to be genuine.

The other teens turned, interest piqued. Hiccup took a deep breath through his nose, imperceptible to everyone else. He did _not_ care. He _would not_ care. Astrid was no more important than anyone else: an internal mantra Hiccup would repeat until it stuck.

He glanced up at her, situated atop her Deadly Nadder. Dragon and rider were both beautiful and impressive, but that was old news that he tried to appreciate with an objective eye. She did not seem the least bit excited to see him, so he did not acknowledge the small echo of excitement within himself at seeing her There was nothing more pathetic than one-sided longing.

"Where's your boyfriend?" Ruffnut teased: a quip that used to refer to Hiccup.

"Stefnir's not my boyfriend," Astrid remarked, dismounting Stormfly with flourish.

She moved fluidly with her piercing blue eyes settling on Hiccup. Unlike the coy little glances she used to give him, he felt this was predatory, and he looked away so she did not sense his weakness.

For all her disinterest in what they were to each other now, she certainly paid him more attention than he would have liked.

"Aren't we racing today?" she asked. "You all were supposed to meet us on the beach."

"Oh, how _could_ we have forgotten?" Snotlout replied. "I can't believe we'd miss out on being the..." He tallied up the rest of them and added, "Fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and..._nineth_ wheels."

"You are not," Astrid retorted, frowning. "We've always enjoyed the friendly competition."

"_'We?'_ So, it is you and them; and then the rest of us," Ruffnut said, folding her arms.

"If there is a division, it's because you've made it," Astrid said, narrowing her eyes. "I don't see why it has to be 'us', or 'them'."

"Because they are a pack of thick-headed Gronckle-fuckers," Snotlout responded, scowling.

Fishlegs shot him a dirty look.

"And you wonder why I don't find _you_ more appealing," Astrid sighed. She turned to Hiccup and smiled. "At least I know at least one person who isn't a judgmental ass."

Hiccup wanted to laugh; she had no idea the depth of his resentment.

"It's a waste of energy to blindly hate a person," he told her. "I usually need a reason."

He had many. Astrid stepped toward him, standing much too close; more so than she used to even when their amiability was mutual. He could smell the scent of the soap on her skin; and it filled his nostrils and burned his lungs with a sudden, intense rush of unexpected longing.

So much for squashing down unwanted feelings. She was a temptress by the gods' design and Hiccup was particularly susceptible.

"Stefnir keeps boasting he'll beat your Night Fury," she told him, reaching up to bury his fingers in his hair, sharpening the ache in his chest. "I don't think he understands it doesn't matter _how_ fast his dragon is. Toothless is not getting any slower."

She twisted a braid in place, like she often did, even though he made a point to always undo them afterward. They did not cross paths nearly as often, and yet she still found reasons to touch him. He wanted to scream for her to stop, to keep her searing hands away from him; but that would be too obvious. As much as their growing distance hurt, he could not endure the added shame of admitting there was still one-sided attraction between them.

"He might learn something if you brought him around the academy," Hiccup said; and it was an empty suggestion. He knew Astrid would not follow through.

"He has a lot on his plate," was her excuse.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Flexing _my_ muscles is an all-day thing too," Tuffnut retorted and the other teens snickered.

Astrid dropped her hands to her sides with a roll of her eyes. The constant taunting annoyed her, but she was never as defensive of the other boys as Hiccup expected her to be.

Once he was certain she was done touching him, he deftly undid the braid she had just made. The disappointment on her face was clear, but she did not object.

"If the rest of you gave the guys a chance, I think you'd find there's plenty you have common," Astrid said, hand on her hips. "Instead, you all just want to be assholes."

"Somehow, I doubt there are enough similarities to carry us beyond small talk," Hiccup replied, brushing past her.

Her eyes widened at his brusqueness, and he did not understand why. She did not have much interest in his opinions anymore.

"Where are you going?" she snipped. "Hiccup, there's a _race_."

How unfair. He did not understand what gave Astrid the right to both demand his presence when it suited her, and to push him away when it did not. People gave her too much, indulged her too much. He had been just as guilty of it once; and perhaps he had given her the impression he did not have a will of his own outside what she wanted of him. But he did not exist for her entertainment, as much as she seemed to think so.

He paused and glanced back at her.

"Looks like you'll have to get along with only four extra wheels today."

"Because your little projects are just _so_ damn important?" she asked.

"Something like that."

"You're breaking my heart," she huffed.

He stared at her and wagered she would be more upset if she had misplaced her favorite battle-axe.

"Astrid," he deadpanned, "I sincerely doubt that."

* * *

Rain pelted Berk with unrelenting fury. There was not a a square inch of the village, indoors or out, that did not feel thoroughly soaked and drafty. Sometimes a blustery drizzle, but often a howling deluge, the weather was giving one last fight before the seasons changed. The fading days of late summer had already cooled considerably, heralding the oppressive reign of Berkian winters, and all the stubborn snow and ice to come. Besides being a welcome distraction, the smithy provided a constant warmth. Hiccup sought to fill the daylight hours with projects and flights with Toothless, as soon as the weather permitted.

Both he and the Night Fury were enjoying the heat of the forge, watching Gobber mull over the plans in his one, good hand. The rain hissed around the shop, loudly reminding them of its frigid ceaselessness.

"_Why_ do we need a dragon wash?" he asked, unconvinced. He gestured at the surroundidng downpour. "Just stick 'em outside fer a few minutes!"

"Well, unless you actually _like_ Grump's-"

"I am rather fond of his stench, actually," the older Viking interrupted, casting Hiccup's sketches aside.

Hiccup quirked an eyebrow, doubtful, and Gobber just gazed back at him. A challenge.

"I suppose you like saddling these old bones with more work, eh? It hasn't been but three months since we finished those feeding stations, and you're already itching for something else to busy your hands with."

"Come on, Gobber. Have you ever known me to sit still?"

"No, but I've got a few ideas of ways a young lad, like yourself, could better occupy his time."

"And that's where this conversation ends!" Hiccup exclaimed, grabbing his blacksmith's apron from its peg.

"All I'm saying, Hiccup, is that your prospects are much better now that you're the town hero. Perhaps it's time you found yourself a girlfriend," Gobber suggested, hobbling over to him. "Or, you know...your hand could do in a pinch."

"You've been talking to my dad again, haven't you?" Hiccup accused. He tied the leather apron on a little too tight in his frustration.

"No...Well, yes. _Maybe. _His solutions are a little more practical and long-term, though. Dating and marriage and all that business I've never had the itch to mess with," Gobber answered, waving his false hand dismissively. "Your too high-strung lately. You need to unwind. My solutions are a little more immediate. Instantly satisfying, if you know what I mean." His obscene gestures were more than explicit enough to convey his meaning.

"Why are you so concerned about how I spend my time?" Hiccup asked, frowning. He reached for a set of tongs. "And I am _not_ high-strung."

"Hiccup?" came a sweet, familiar voice that he had come to dread.

He fumbled with the tongs, dropping them on the ground.

"Oh, sure. You're as calm as a snoozing Hotburple," Gobber mocked, shuffling away.

Hiccup glared at his mentor as Astrid came bounding into the forge, drenched and breathless. Her tunic clung to her body more indecently than it really needed to, and the slight flush on her fair cheeks was not helping. He could pretend she no longer meant anything to him, but he could not pretend her physical beauty did not still fluster him. The moment he nearly forgot the pain of missing her, she traipsed by to remind him of what he nearly had, and what was also completely out of his reach.

"Oh, good. I'm glad you're here," she said, but Hiccup could not return the sentiment.

"I often am," he replied, bending over to pick up his tongs.

She smiled, as oblivious to his internal vexation as she ever was.

"I have a job for you, if you have the time," she said.

_Of course_ she did. Besides dragon racing and blacksmithing, the last remaining vestiges of their friendship held little value. He was only useful to her in terms of his practical skills; something she could personally benefit from.

"I'm sorry, Astrid," he replied, hoping to deny her another opportunity to waste his time. "I have plenty of work to-"

"Eh, he's exaggerating!" Gobber scoffed seeming to reemerge at Hiccup's greatest inconvenience, slapping him on the back.

Hiccup sighed, withstanding the buckling of his knees. "What is it that you need?"

"A dagger," she answered. "Stefnir broke a blade practicing in the woods, and-"

"Those vile trees. We're so fortunate we have such brave men to defend us from their encroachment. Tell me, what is it like, to cull the timber herd?"

Astrid wrinkled her nose and swatted at him. He wished he did not find her facial expression so adorable.

"He's not _just_ throwing his daggers at trees, though you wouldn't laugh if you saw how accurate he is. He almost always hits his mark," she remarked.

"Mn, yeah. He's amazing. I got that the last hundred times you mentioned him. I bet he's prepared now-to take on the entire forest single-handedly."

"More like defend Berk from raiders, Hiccup."

"We have our dragons to do that. Forgive me if I am less than impressed."

She rolled her eyes and leaned against the wall patiently. He quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Was there something _else_ you needed?" he questioned, wary of providing another reason for her to linger.

"I'm not allowed to stand here?"

"Why would you _want_ to?" he asked, bemused.

Astrid smiled at him in that way that tore at his heart's scar tissue. Now, it was more urgent that she left.

"I've always liked watching you work," she answered. He frowned, so she snapped, "Do you _want_ me to go?"

He turned his back to her, grabbing a piece of iron ore with his tongs.

"I don't need the audience," he muttered.

He heard her storm off as he placed the raw material into the burning forge. The mixture of both relief and regret was strange, but with Astrid gone, he could actually focus on his work. If she had stayed, he would have used up his brainpower on remembering not to care.

Once she was out of earshot, Gobber spoke up. "You know, you might get her attention if you fought for her, not against her." He shrugged his massive shoulder.

Hiccup compressed the bellows and replied, "I've done my share of fighting for people." He gestured down at his prosthetic and added, "It usually doesn't end well, and I'm not looking to lose anymore pieces of myself."


	2. Chapter 2

"It's _Einmánuður_," Snotlout announced, to everyone's confusion.

He was prone to sudden outbursts, that was nothing new; but even his more asinine comments usually fit somewhere on the peripherals of the conversation at hand. Fishlegs glanced up at him, bemused, then looked to Hiccup for some kind of translation.

Hiccup was just as clueless. He shrugged his shoulders before returning to their game of _hnefatafl._

"What has that got to do with anything?" Fishlegs asked, fiddling with the discarded pawn in his thick hands.

"In case you haven't noticed, it's freezing balls outside," Snotlout replied, as if it was the most obvious explanation in the world.

"Just like it has been every winter for as long as Berk has stood here," Hiccup muttered, moving one of his game pieces the number of spaces indicated on the dice he had rolled. "Also, long before that."

Snotlout continued, "I, for one, am looking forward to summer in a few weeks."

"Praise the gods, you _can_ read a calendar," Hiccup said.

Snotlout scowled at him. "My point, asshole, is the first official dragon race of the summer season is almost here, and _you_ are still down a teammate. This isn't friendly flying around the island anymore. This is fans shouting, sheep hunting, livestock dunking-for points! So far, it looks like it's going to be three-on-two, unless..."

Fishlegs froze, eyes flickering back and forth between Hiccup and Snotlout. He twisted his hands around the captured black pawn he had been toying with.

"Fishlegs, he's dead," Hiccup said, nodding to the game piece the other boy was strangling. "Let him rest with dignity."

Fishlegs gave a nervous chuckle and dropped the pawn beside the _hnefatafl_ board, drumming his fingers on the tabletop instead. Snotlout said nothing further, but Hiccup was keenly aware of his cousin's expectant stare boring into his side.

"I'm assuming you want to know what I plan on doing; if I'm going to ask Astrid or not," Hiccup replied, his expression never cracked.

"We don't need to have teams!" Fishlegs interjected, voice quavering just enough to betray him "We can race as individuals-!"

"It's fine. You and I have gone against Team Snotnuts before without any trouble," Hiccup said.

"Huh? What about Snotnuts?" Tuffnut piped up.

He and Ruffnut had been engaged in their own arm-wrestling competition, oblivious to a rest of the conversation taking place beside them. When Tuffnut finally took notice, his sister overpowered him, pinning his arm to the tabletop and spilling a tankard of ale onto the _hnefatafl_ board. Hiccup, Fishlegs, and Snotlout, all pushed back from the table as the amber puddle dripped over the edge.

"Really, guys?" Fishlegs huffed at the unapologetic pair.

"I guess our match has been decided by a deluge of alcohol. I suppose it wouldn't be the first time stalwart Vikings have been defeated by drink," Hiccup remarked, picking up a wet pawn and examining its carved face peppered with foam.

"Stop avoiding the issue!" Snotlout demanded, knocking the game piece from his hand.

Hiccup narrowed his eyes at his cousin.

"I'm not avoiding anything. All I'm saying is that Fishelgs and I don't need a third teammate to compete. But if you're so determined to keep the numbers even, _you_ can go ask Astrid if she wants to race! It makes no difference to me, either way."

Snotlout glared back, and Hiccup knew his cousin had no intention of approaching Astrid. Snotlout did not like being replaceable, especially by older boys who were more quintessentially Viking than hew was. His pride would not allow him to seem needy; he would not ask Astrid to return to their group.

"I would think you'd care more," Snotlout muttered, folding his arms in front of his chest. "You two used to be a thing."

"We were never a thing. We were only ever friends."

That realization had burned when it first dawned on him; but months later, it only filled him with bitterness and regret. He had been so foolish to think the occasional stolen kiss was tantamount to any real, significant feelings. Girls played by different rules. He had been an ignorant boy in love, he supposed, blinded by Astrid's geniality, mistaking it for caring after years of being ignored, hungry for acceptance and affection he had so long been denied. Whatever love he had for her then had since become inextricably entwined with resentment. Hiccup could not determine which emotion was stronger.

"Well, none of us were that special, when you think about it," Ruffnut spoke up. She gestured across the Great Hall and added, "Look at her, sitting there like she's queen bee. It's like we never meant anything to her at all."

Astrid was indeed with her new circle of friends, laughing as two of the young men fought each other. She cheered them on while they threw punches. By the smirks on their faces, it was all in good fun to work out some aggression, hone their skills, and to entertain. Older boys, like Stefnir, had been killing dragons a couple years before Hiccup and his friends had even been eligible to learn. Combat was what they knew, and though peace was upon their village, they needed an outlet. They were still warriors, and fist fights were an acceptable pastime. It was not uncommon, though Hiccup could not relate-but Astrid apparently did. It was one of the factors that had driven her away to young men that better appreciated that part of her.

How had Hiccup missed it; her lingering fondness for physical violence?

"Maybe we _should_ ask Astrid if she wants to be in the race?" Fishlegs suggested. "She's our friend, right? It's only fair to give her the opportunity."

"Friend? Is that what you'd call her?" Tuffnut replied, frowning. "I'd call her 'that girl who sometimes remembers we're alive.' If the occasional visit to the academy and friendly flight is what you'd call friendship, then I must not understand the word."

"That wouldn't be entirely surprising," Snotlout teased.

"I know. That's what I meant. I really might _not _understand the word," Tuffnut said, brow wrinkled.

"Guys, I'm just trying to stop things from getting worse between us," Fishlegs stated.

He always tried to be the reasonable, sympathetic soul in the group, and Hiccup could appreciate that. Fishlegs and Astrid had a good rapport, so he remained neutral amid all the animosity the other teens directed her. Someone needed to hold the middle ground, because Hiccup was too personally affected by the loss of Astrid's attention to pretend the others' insults bothered him much. Objectively, Astrid did not deserve all the disdain. She had drifted away without intending to be hurtful. Her life was her business, as well as who she chose to play a prominent role in it.

But Hiccup's rational mind was just not speaking to his bruised heart, and objectivity was of no comfort.

"If she wants to spend more of her time with Stefnir and his friends, than that's her prerogative," he said. "You can't change her mind, Fishlegs."

"But we _can_ keep reminding her we're here and we care," Fishlegs replied, bright and hopeful. "So, who's going to ask her?"

Snotlout shook his head and answered, "Care? You kind of have to give a shit for that to work. Unfortunately, I don't."

He began to walk off and the twins leaped to their feet.

"There's the pressing matter of getting more ale," Tuffnut said.

"Very important," Ruffnut added.

The two of them hurried off after Snotlout, retreating before they were recruited. Hiccup and Fishlegs were left sitting there, staring at each other, with a river of spilled alcohol and a soaked game board between them.

"I guess it'll have to be me then," Fishlegs sighed. He rubbed his large arm, shifting his weight. "I'm not going to make you do it."

Hiccup replied, "I don't know what you think you're saving me from."

"It can't be easy to see her with those other guys."

"What makes you say that?"

Fishlegs leaned in to whisper, "Hiccup, come on...this is _me _you're talking to."

Hiccup's stomach clenched. Fishlegs could see through him. In Astrid's absence, they were closer than they had ever been. Perhaps Fishlegs had learned to read him over the course of a year? That, or he was still a bit too transparent.

"So you've managed to dig past the surface and uncover some great inner turmoil, right?" Hiccup muttered.

"No, no. You're clearly above whatever this is, but I'm not as oblivious as Snotlout and the twins. I think you loved Astrid once, regardless of how you feel about her now," Fishlegs remarked. Gesturing vaguely at Hiccup's chest, he added, "Somehow, somewhere, that has got to hurt."

Hiccup was thankful he was still so opaque; thankful that those closest to him could only speculate how miserable he felt.

"I don't think I ever _loved_ her, but maybe I gave it my best shot?" he mused. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. There's nothing to be gained by talking about it."

"You're right. Emotions-what a mess. It's kind of inappropriate to get into all of that," Fishlegs replied with a sheepish grin. He held up his hands in surrender, scooting away on the bench to provide physical space to match.

"Kind of."

"Too personal?"

Hiccup nodded. Expressing general unhappiness was one thing, but it was unbecoming for a Hooligan to dwell on matters of the heart. Such talk was reserved for close family or lovers, exclusively; but it did not prevent the unorthodox soul from being curious and asking what need not be asked-nosy individuals, like Fishlegs and Gobber.

Most definitely, Gobber. Fishlegs, to a lesser extent.

"Sorry," Fishlegs apologized for his solecism. He rose to his feet and said, "I'll ask her, then-to make it up to you. It's bound to be awkward, no matter who goes."

"If you insist," Hiccup replied, feigning indifference to mask his relief.

Fishlegs ambled away, and Hiccup watched him approach the pack of older teens. He stopped to make friendly conversation with Stefnir, who had an annoying habit of being far too interested in who spoke to Astrid. Anyone with a penis was under particular scrutiny. For all Astrid's denial that she and Stefnir were a legitimate couple, the young man displayed possessive tendencies that made Hiccup uneasy. Stefnir draped an arm around Astrid as Fishlegs chatted with them, even though there was hardly a Viking less threatening. Astrid seemed rather nonchalant as Stefnir pulled her closer.

Fishlegs had begun talking to Astrid, no doubt telling her about the upcoming official race to gauge her interest. She grinned and nodded, and Hiccup felt a sort of regrettable excitement. He was not so much looking forward to her presence, but the energy she brought to a dragon race, instead. She could stir up the crowd and race twice as hard as anyone. It was difficult _not_ to find her enthusiasm infectious, though he hated the small part of himself that wanted her on his team. Honestly, he could have been just as content with only Fishlegs.

He groaned to himself and swiveled on the bench to stand, casting one more glance in Astrid's direction. A clear mistake. That moment, she had sought him out as well, and he felt a visceral dread as their eyes met. Her smiled faded as she stared at him, morphing into something unreadable that hovered in the realm of wistful contemplation. He did not know if she was expecting a friendly acknowledgment, like a nod of the head or a wave; but he could not uncurl his fists from where they rested, tight in his lap. He did not know why her gaze lingered on him, or what possessed her to look for him to begin with. Her head games she threatened to rope him back in. Her mind-bending motivations were the reason he was so aloof around her-why he resisted any conversation too friendly. He had crawled out from the woeful chasm, but one push from Astrid would send him back into it. His carefully maintained apathy was as much a defense mechanism as it was a salve.

She had no right to look at him like that-like she had some great problem and he was her solution. It was as if she was compelled to make things needlessly complicated when they were quite simple: she had her boys, she had made her choice. There was no room for Hiccup but as a casual acquaintance. He did not want to play. There was no way for it to possibly end well. As she sat there, perhaps hoping for some amicable gesture aimed her way, he could only think of one action that was warranted.

He stood up and strode off, searching for a rag to mop up the puddle of ale that had drowned the _hnefatafl_ board. He reached back for his small braid, making sure it was in place so Astrid did not have an excuse to touch him if their paths crossed again. In the months since the hair-braiding had started, he learned that grudgingly leaving the decorations alone kept her busy fingers at bay. He did not glance back at her as he weaved between tables, finding his current task more important than Astrid's reaction to his standoffishness.

Messes never did clean themselves.

* * *

The seasons had turned. Summer was fully upon them, and Astrid was restless. Just shy of eighteen, her life would soon be completely out of her hands. She supposed it already was, to a degree. Some things were still left to settle; unresolved issues that weighed on her mind. She was afraid to move forward with loose ends.

"Does Hiccup hate me, or what?" she asked, trying to sound offhanded as possible.

Ruffnut made an irritated noise and turned, clutching her saddle tightly.

"If you were around more, maybe you'd know," she replied.

The female Thorston was as bitter as the rest of her former group of friends, but at least the two of them were on speaking terms. Ruffnut resented the reduction in the amount of girl time and talk of young men, but they were still closer than Astrid was with any of the boys from the old crew.

"I hung out with you last week, remember? In the Great Hall, for the drinking contest between you and Snotlout? I held back your hair when you puked," Astrid retorted, rolling her eyes. "I _am_ around..."

"Yeah, sure-for competitions and when you're bored because Stefnir's busy," Tuffnut said, fixing his saddle to Belch.

Astrid frowned as she unburdened Stormfly. She had just returned from a solo flight, unable to find anyone to accompany her. The Thorston twins were prepared to fly only now that she was finished. She had, for a brief moment, spotted Hiccup and Toothless soaring among the clouds, but when she called out for them to let her catch up, she had lost sight of them almost immediately. She tried to tell herself that it had been unintentional, that they were not ignoring her; but there had been something deliberate about their sharp turn. Her heart ached to watch him flee from her, but it was for the best-being around Hiccup was dangerous. He made her feel too much.

"How _is_ that going, anyway?" Ruffnut asked. "You've been with Stefnir for...what? Close to a year now?"

"Something like that," Astrid replied.

She did not know the exact length of time, because it had been an informal announcement unworthy of a commemorative date. For a whole year, she had denied she was dating anyone, but eventually, she could not fight it. The were too obvious, and everyone would come to know how serious things with really were between her and Stefnir Svenson soon enough. She had not been happy about becoming "official", or whatever it was that labeled her unavailable, but she had let it slip in passing. Since then, she no longer had cause to refute their boyfriend-girlfriend status. Astrid had let the other riders know that Stefnir was there to stay. Fishlegs just nodded, and Snotlout huffed, folding his arms across his broad chest. Ruffnut fished around in her pocket for a piece of hack silver to pay her brother for whatever wager had been set between them.

Hiccup had just...

Astrid sighed heavily, remembering the distinct _lack_ of a response from him. He had barely even looked up from his sketches of Berk's new aqueduct system. A brief flicker of green in her direction with the tiniest skip of his pencil on the parchment was all he gave her. He had heard her, but could not care any less. That had been a painful dose of standoffishness.

She probably expected too much from him. They had been growing apart for the past two years; but there was no other way to make things work. She could not get to know Stefnir-fall for him like she was supposed to-with Hiccup drawing her in with his inescapable gravity.

She tried to ignore him properly, but she could not. There was nothing to be gained from braiding his hair or pestering him in the smithy, but she wanted to at least lay eyes on him. She wanted to touch him in some manner to ensure he was still real and he had not faded from her life entirely.

Reason battled with compulsion. What she wanted, versus what she needed-and both were embodied by two very different young men. Shecould only have the one of them. Little by little, she tried to let go of Hiccup; but the minute he had started to pull away of his own volition, she could not stop it. He was fading from her grasp faster and more completely than she had intended. Trying to maintain a friendship with him now was like trying to keep water cupped in her hands. Her attempts to speak to him fell flat. She tried to rekindle some level of closeness, but it always backfired. He was a distant and unfamiliar heart wearing the kind face of her best friend.

Or rather, the boy who _used _to be her best friend.

Stormfly pulled her out of her reverie with a loud, excited squawk. Regardless of whatever tension existed between their humans, dragons could still enjoy a good enough rapport with one another.

The Night Fury glided into the stables and Stormfly wanted to go to him-her playmate-but the intuitive dragons sensed their riders' hesitation and remained apart. Toothless warbled a greeting and Stormfly bobbed her head: the most interaction they would allow themselves with Hiccup and Astrid present.

"Oh, look. Hiccup's back. Y'know, if you have any burning questions for him..." Ruffnut teased. Astrid shot her a dirty look and she cackled, mounting her half of her Zippleback. "Don't forget, you and Stefnir agreed to do patrol for us tomorrow," the female Thorston added.

Astrid waved her hand dismissively and the twins took off, leaving her alone in the newly constructed subterranean stables with Hiccup She almost wished they had not left her with the one person who least wanted to see her. _Almost_. There was something bittersweet about the particular type of pain that came from interacting with him, and Astrid was feeling a little masochistic.

Hiccup did not look at her as he dismounted Toothless, but she stared at him and his windswept hair, which was far more attractive than it had any right to be. He had the audacity to grow more handsome from the moment she decided to give up on him. How thoughtless.

"I suppose you didn't hear me calling you earlier," she said, hands on her hips.

Hiccup glanced at her, but only for a moment before casting his eyes to the ground.

"When was that?" he asked, flattening out his tousled hair.

"A little while ago, when you were flying. I was out on Stormfly. I tried to get your attention."

"Must've been too far away." He shrugged, and strode past her, still not looking at her.

She dropped a hand down by her side, extending it just enough to barely brush Hiccup's hand as he walked by. Well-attuned to subtle body movements from years of combat training, she noticed him tense. He continued on like he had not noticed the contact.

"Wait," Astrid said. She wanted to prolong things just a bit more. Their interactions were so few and far between.

Hiccup stopped, though he did not seem happy about it. She saw the rise and fall in his shoulders from the heavy sigh he kept to himself. He could not pretend to be deaf to her in such a tight space; and despite his aloof demeanor, he was also compelled to be more polite than the rest of their mutual friends. He turned, looking at her, and Astrid felt a twinge of sadness for the warmth missing from his eyes. That used to lift her spirits instantly, but there was nothing there for her anymore. He just stood there, saying nothing and displaying no particular feeling at all.

"You're missing a braid," she said, running her fingers through his hair. He often had one, but it was not enough. She had recently taken to giving him two so she would not be deterred if he had kept one in place from the day before. She should not have been touching him. She did not _need_ to be touching him-but it always felt good until the moment she stopped. Then she would feel ashamed.

"Oh. Well, by all means. I understand how vital that is to my appearance," he replied, gaze darting to the exit and back.

She grinned, but it faded when she realized he was not smiling too. Apparently, he had not meant to be funny; and he was only tolerating her childish behavior because he was too kind to say whatever words caught at the back of his throat. Never cruel in his apathy, but never giving her more cordial regard than she was due. Life seemed to have lost all sense, given that he treated Snotlout with a bit more consideration than he did her, if for no other reason than the two cousins spent more time together.

"Done," she said, holding on to the tiny plait until there was no longer a sensible reason to do so. She let go of him with reluctance, but she honestly did not know what she was trying to hang on to, or why. She had a man, and he was not Hiccup.

"Is that all?" he asked, neither rude nor impatient.

Always the same question, sometimes reworded. "Is that all?" or "Is there anything else?" A narrow-ended question containing his hope to leave, or to see her leave. In two years, he had ended almost every conversation the same way.

"Yes," she answered, and he inclined his head respectfully.

He turned to his dragon, attitude brightening in an instant. Unfair.

"Let's go, bud," he told the Night Fury. Toothless trotted after him.

Stormfly fidgeted, wishing to follow them, and her pathetic cry captured the Night Fury's attention. He gazed back with rounded pupils and the softest growl.

Hiccup paused and studied the dragons before his eyes met Astrid's again-just one more time. It was _not fair_ that their dragons' companionship had to be collateral damage in whatever it was they were doing to one another. She did not have a word to define it-nothing that explained what existed between her and Hiccup anymore.

"Did I do something to you. Do you...do you _hate_ me?" she asked, steeling herself in anticipation of whatever terrible answer he might give. "Are you angry with me for dating Stefnir?"

Hiccup's eyebrows raised and he visibly recoiled; it first clear emotion she had seen on his face in days.

"Hate you?" he replied. Then, he seemed to regain his composure, slipping back into that infuriatingly lukewarm demeanor. "No, Astrid. I don't hate you. Why would I? I would have to be personally offended you're dating Stefnir, and I'm not. After all, it's not like there's anything significant that was lost between us."

He might as well have slapped her for the effect his words had. To claim there had been nothing meaningful between them at all...

Astrid balled her hand into a fist.

Hiccup retreated up the stairs with his dragon, unconcerned with whatever her response might be. The indistinct echoes of his murmured conversation with Toothless rattled inside her brain. She was sure he was gone before she kicked over the nearest barrel in outrage. Dung-caked mucking tools clattered on to the ground, scattering Terrible Terrors in a panic.

She was filled with so much hurt, confusion, and indignation, her body's only recourse was to shake from the flurry of emotion. Her fingers trembled badly as she stroked her concerned Nadder's snout, feeling her blood pressure drop a little with the soothing gesture. Her eyes stung and her throat felt dry, but Astrid Hofferson did not cry-not for anyone who did not deserve it.

"Why couldn't he have just said 'yes'?" she muttered, to no one in particular.

* * *

"You're upset," Stefnir announced, as if it was some kind of revelation.

Astrid did not need the heads up. A full day had not been long enough to clear her head of Hiccup and his harsh words.

"It's nothing," she replied, forcing a smile.

She wanted to shake off her discontent and focus on scouting the dark, swirling water below for signs of Marauders-assorted rabble from the remnants of the Berserkers and Outcasts. She and Stefnir were filling in for the Thorston twins, as promised. They could at least do a better job than the inattentive and distractaed siblings. That much was certain.

"It's him again, isn't it?" Stefnir asked. Even the darkness, she could see his scowl highlighted by the luminous waxing moon above.

Astrid rolled her eyes. She did not like it when her own mind dwell on Hiccup. She did not need Stefnir to join in the misery and make it worse; it was counterproductive.

"Please, Stef. I want to drop it," she said, flying ahead of him as they rounded a sharp, craggy bend.

Patrolling the sea around Berk was a chore, but for their dragons, it was an excuse to stretch their wings. Stormfly flew smoothly, in good spirits.

"No. Evidently, this isn't getting any better. Whatever it is, I'm going to confront him about it. I don't care if he's the chief's son or not!"

Astrid eased up on Stormfly, and her dragon slowed until she was flying parallel to his tawny Monstrous Nightmare.

"No, you will_ not_," she demanded and he quirked an eyebrow. "He's not doing anything deliberate. He's just..."

She did not know what to say. Plaguing her thoughts? Torturing her with his distance? The truth was problematic to her relationship. She had learned to like Stefnir-really, she had. She no longer recoiled from his kisses, and she even initiated a peck or two so he believed her to be equally interested. Always quick and occasionally followed up by an embrace-never anything more serious from her. She had gotten to the point where she could accept his affections, but that was far easier than giving hers.

"Tell him about us, then. Tell all of them about the future. Sever those ties for good," Stefnir said.

Astrid stomach knotted at the thought.

"I can't do that," she replied.

"Tell them? Or leave them behind?"

"Either? Both? Does it matter? They're my friends. They have been for a long time-well, most of them, anyway. I'm not just going to walk out of their lives because you think it's the right thing to do."

"Why not? You're halfway to it, from what I can tell. It would make things easier on everyone, especially once you tell them the reason," Stefnir explained.

Astrid tilted her head back and closed her eyes, feeling her bangs and loose strands of hair whipping around her face as Stormfly glided over the rolling waves. She took a deep breath, feeling her hands tightening on the horn of her saddle, inhaling the salty air and warmth of the summer night.

"I'm not going to tell them we're engaged," she said softly. "Not yet. It's not a good time."

"For you, or for them?"

Astrid opened her eyes and glared at him.

"Again-does it matter?" she retorted.

Stefnir's shoulders rounded.

"Look, babe. I don't want to fight with you, but you're almost eighteen now. I'll be twenty-one. In a few months, my fifteen-year-old sister is marrying her fiance. We're overdue, considering how long the contract has been set between our families. Why are we delaying it? What are you waiting for?"

Astrid used to know the answer, back when she had hoped enough stalling would cause the Svenson clan to lose interest in a union with the Hoffersons-but wealth and power were the motivators, and not easily forgotten. She could not say she knew her reason any longer. Neither her parents, nor his, would bow out and disgrace their names. She was bound to Stefnir as long as the marriage contract stood. There was no use in prolonging the inevitable.

"If it gets you off my case, I will tell them tomorrow," she replied. "Gods only knows I couldn't bare the shame if your little sister got hitched before we do."

She forced a smile and Stefnir chuckled, satisfied. If she pretended to be cheerful long enough, she could start to believe she actually was, and they could finally drop the issue.

"Let's go back to the village," he said, grinning. "We can do another check at sunrise."

Astrid nodded and let him lead the way, trying to prepare herself to enjoy whatever method Stefnir would use to bid her a goodnight. He liked the physical, and she had thrown up boundaries he liked to push.

It was not that he was unattractive, or they did not get along. On the contrary, Astrid admired his combat skills and he was at least competent with a dragon. There was enough common ground to keep conversation from growing too dull, and he respected her. He cared for her and was sufficiently intelligent-but there was not a spark. At least, not for Astrid. She let him put his hands on her because it was all part of the act: a good wife-in-training. She could tolerate it, as every young woman who had survived an arranged marriage had to do. One day, she would hopefully wake up and love her husband, but it was not a sentiment she felt that night-not as they ushered their dragons into their adjacent stalls and Stefnir grabbed her with that devious grin.

She let him kiss her as they had done dozens of times before. His lips were always greedy and his tongue was eager, but she stood there with her arms around his neck, doing nothing. Feeling nothing. She did not kiss him back and she did not push him away. She was simply compliant. It was never unpleasant, but she craved something different: a kind of kiss that her heart remembered vividly. She wanted the lips that felt and tasted more familiar, though she had not felt them in two years.

Her eyes fluttered closed and she slowly started to kiss Stefnir back, because she was imagining, for a moment, she was kissing someone else. In her mind, his lips were Hiccup's, and somehow that made it just a little bit better.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** This is a strange experience for me, editing this story for, what...the _third_ time? The second edit completely revised the entire fic. This third version is just a further polishing of the revised story, with all its warts and imperfections. If nothing else, between cringing at my old writing, it serves as a testament to how far I've come. Each chapter appears to get better so bear with me.

* * *

Another month came and went. Astrid turned eighteen, and she _still _had not told the other riders of her arranged marriage to Stefnir. Doing so would not change the truth, but her intended was pressuring her to be forthcoming for the wrong reasons. So, she was intentionally dragging her heels about it.

"It's part of growing up, Astrid. Sometimes, you have to let go of old friends in the interest of making new ones, moving on with your life," Stefnir said, and Astrid found his tone condescending. She did not need a lecture. The advice was unwarranted.

"So says the guy who's had the same friends since he was born," she scoffed.

"Why are you so determined to to hang on to them? Do you really think you'll be as involved with them and that academy nonsense once we're married? Once we have children?"

Stefnir was a more traditionally-minded Viking and he expected, with the announcement of their engagement and the nuptials to follow, that Astrid would retreat further into his ideals of a decent wife. He spoke a lot about home-cooked meals, many children, and the nights they would share; not that any of these things were inherently unappealing. Astrid wanted them, but she felt she was fulfilling a duty, an obligation, rather than achieving these things of her own will. Stefnir would be a good husband. Hel, a _great_ husband...for a younger, more impressionable bride. Instead, he got Astrid: someone that liked him as a person, but was indifferent to him as a future spouse and lover. She did not want to play the version of the happy wedded couple he had in his mind, so she delayed things as much as she had the power to do so. She told him that she was not ready. She told their parents that she needed a bit more time; but she did not know much time would be enough. She did not know when she would feel ready to let go of her childhood friends and embrace the new social circle that would come with her new life as a Svenson.

She was not sure one could ever feel ready for that to be thrust upon them,choosing between the comfort and carelessness of yesteryear and the uncertain changes awaiting in the fog of maturity. But the alternative was to continue stringing everyone along through the thorny patch of misery laid out before them. She could not exactly call off the marriage. No one could _make _her say the vows, but she would not bring disgrace upon her family, either. She had a duty. A responsibility. She would be seen as unreasonable to throw a fit about it. Arranged marriages were not a novel idea, and she had no other attachments anyone knew about to hold her back and warrant such resistance; but it was nothing she had ever expected for herself, back when she had only been concerned with dragons and an infatuation with the chief's lanky son.

"You've been so anxious lately. I'm beginning to think you don't _want_ to marry me," Stefnir teased, though there was a trace of genuine concern in his voice.

Astrid glanced down at him, nose wrinkled, making him chuckle. She did not want him to doubt her. They were going to be married, and she did not want suspicions hanging over them as they joined their lives together. The act of being wed was already heavy enough without threats of divorce and infidelity that accompanied insincere ties.

"Don't be ridiculous," she replied, running her fingers through his thick, long hair. "Of course I want to marry you. We'll be...very good together."

His helmet lay on the grass beside them as he rested with his head on her knee. His two closest friends were busy learning their families' trade: leather-working and carpentry, respectively. That left the Stefnir and Astrid to spend time alone, un-distracted. It was always a bit forced and uncomfortable for Astrid, but such times of bonding and growth were necessary to convince herself she was deeply fond of the man she was to spend her life with.

Then, she watched her fingers glide through his fawn-colored locks, and she could not help but think of Hiccup's hair: that deep auburn that could look darker in shade, or brilliantly red when the light hit it just so.

"That's always how you talk about us," Stefnir criticized. He sat up and her fingers were saddened by the loss of idle work. She had been enjoying herself, imagining she was braiding Hiccup's hair. "It's always in terms of what a good pair we make-a formidable team. You rarely speak about us with any kind of affection."

Astrid pursed her lips. It was a fair assessment. Speaking about them in the most logical terms was easy. Lying that she felt any real affection was the difficult part.

"What do you want me to say, Stef?" she asked. "Do you want a sweet pet name? Or do you want me hanging on your arm all of the time? I think we both know that's not me,and you like that."

Stefnir frowned and touched her face. Astrid tensed, never feeling the urge to shove him away, but never feeling comfortable with such tender contact.

"Tell me that you _do _love me," he demanded. "Tell me you aren't secretly dreading this."

Dread was a strong word, but so was love. Neither was true, in that particular instance.

"So, you plan on coercing me into affection?" she asked with a smirk.

Stefnir sighed and gave the back of his neck a weary rub. He picked up his helmet and placed it on his head a bit forcefully. He winced.

"_No_, Astrid. I'm not trying to bully you. I hoped you'd say it of your free will, because you meant it."

She felt a stab of guilt. It was not her intention to hurt Stefnir, though she supposed it had to be her intention to mislead him. On some very fundamental level, she cared about him in a platonic, friendly manner. She did not like to lie, but their entire relationship was built on a substantial yarn that she had spun-continued to spin.

"I...I do...I care about you. You know that," she remarked, and she was content it was a little honest, at least. She could not look him in the eyes, however.

He placed his fingertips beneath her chin and tilted her face toward him, forcing locked gazes that made her insides squirm. But they were to be married, and so she settled her stomach through sheer determination, like she always did. She told herself to enjoy it; find something endearing in it. Stefnir studied her closely all the while, raking his eyes over her features with the intensity of a dragon stalking its next meal. The truth was his prey, hidden somewhere in the depths of Astrid's blue eyes. Her fingers curled in his tunic, tracing the lacings of his collar with a conscious softness, trying to act the part.

Her moan was not sincere against his lips when he kissed her, but it was passable. His hand was on the small of her back, pulling her closer. She did not resist him, and perhaps it _did_ feel kind of nice. She was not sure. He pulled back, satisfied, but she knew it was only until the next time they had the same recurring argument.

"I love you," he said, rubbing his thumb lightly over her cheekbone as he cupped the side of her face.

She wanted to scream.

"I know that," she replied feebly.

She caught a glimpse a Night Fury gliding high overhead, and her heart gave the tiniest flutter of excitement. Then, she noticed the the disappoint on Stefnir's face over her weak response; and her conscience kindly reminded her she was a horrible human being. There was no point in it, dragging Stefnir along as she entertained the faintest glimmer of hope that things might get better between her and Hiccup. Something had to give, and her arranged marriage was not going anywhere.

"I'll tell the others tomorrow...no, this time, I mean it," she resolved. "You'll have no more reason to doubt."

He grinned, but she could not return it.

* * *

"I don't suppose I'm allowed to ask you how things are coming along in the dating arena?" Gobber asked.

He placed another finished saddle on the rack behind Hiccup.

"No. You're not," Hiccup answered, tooling leather in a beautiful knotwork pattern on the saddle in front of him.

When the orders piled up, it was often a joint project to fill them, and he was the only person on the island who was as skilled and quick at leather-working as his mentor. Gobber was responsible for the base construction, according to the patron's specifications; and Hiccup provided the intricate finishing touches, be it decorations or additions of a more practical nature, such as mounts for weapons-essential to any design.

He was glad for the distraction, finding the smell of leather and soot from the forge comforting...until the older Viking had to open his mouth.

"Well, then here I am, _not_ asking you about it," Gobber remarked with a sly grin.

"That's great, because here I am not telling you about it."

Gobber limped around until he was standing beside Hiccup, making himself difficult to ignore.

"You know, you might want to take it easy on me. Show me mercy. Your dad won't stop asking _me_ because he knows you won't talk to _him_ about anything," he said, leaning against Hiccup's workbench, weight on his remaining hand.

"And he thinks I talk to you?"

"Aye, that's what he believes."

Hiccup groaned. He slumped his shoulders and laid down his leather tooling instruments emphatically.

"Maybe about certain things, but my love life isn't one of them," he replied.

"Ahh, he's just concerned. You know how he gets: worried when you close yourself off. Worried that you're too distracted thinking about Ast-ehhh, _other_ things...that you fail to tackle the problem right in front of you."

Hiccup narrowed his eyes. He heard the offending syllable that Gobber tried to gloss over.

"Oh. You mean problems like the ones _he_ lays out right in front of me?" he asked, frowning.

He was getting tired of his father's constant nagging, hurriedly blurted out at him before he could retreat from the house. The past few moths had been filled with reminders that he needed more structured training in the ways of being chief. Hiccup kept brushing it off, however, not eager to spend his days shadowing his father. The added responsibility was just one more stress he did not need. Not to mention, he would lose his mind playing captive audience to all of his father's suggestions about dating.

He did not need the advice. He did not _want_ the advice. What he really wanted, he could not have; and he had come to terms with that. A new, pretty face would not change anything.

"You know that's not the way of it. You _do_ need to learn how to be chief, and part of that finding yourself a wife. I think Stoick would feel much better if you were at least looking fer someone to fill that role..."

"I don't see the urgency. I don't intend on becoming chief anytime soon," Hiccup grumbled, returning to his work, hoping his renewed focus would discourage further conversation.

It was wishful thinking around a man like Gobber, with a penchant for talking that befitted his name.

"But you're eighteen, now," the older man stated.

"So are the others-or they're close enough to it-but I don't hear anyone criticizing _their _lack of-"

"The war is over-"

"Right. So, marriage isn't something to rush into anymore."

"It's about _appearances_, Hiccup. You need to look like you're motivated."

"Clearly, you _have _been talking to my dad," Hiccup droned.

"Oh, it's not so bad. You're being dramatic," Gobber replied. "You could probably choose any girl you'd like. Even if she wasn't happy about it, I cannot see the family refusing-"

"Mmn, yeah. Nothing like a little bit of resentment to build the foundation of a lasting relationship," Hiccup muttered under his breath, but Gobber continued on.

"You're the future chief, the village hero-"

"Please, stop."

"You have a _Night Fury!_ You've got all the wealth and power that a young lady's family would love to-"

"_Stop_," Hiccup interrupted, a little louder and with more force than he had intended. "To me, this isn't some business deal to be struck."

Gobber sighed and gazed at him sympathetically, pushing back from the workbench. He smoothed his mustache with one hand, thoughtful.

"What about Ruffnut?" he asked; and there was no teasing grin on his face, no mirthful twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Hiccup's mallet completely missed the leather stamp. He stared back at Gobber wide-eyed, before his top lip curled at the thought. Not that he did not care about the female Thorston. As a friend. _Only_ as a friend; and even then, their relationship was an odd one.

"Alright, _alright_," Gobber responded, throwing his hands up defensively. "I just thought maybe you could make that work. At least you and Ruffnut are on good terms. That's half the battle isn't it?"

"Not exactly," Hiccup answered. He gestured vaguely below his waist and added,"Besides, the only way _that _works is I have a...and she...well, you get the point."

Gobber chuckled and ruffled his hair. Hiccup set down his mallet to smooth it back out, though it always retained some degree of untidiness no matter what he did to it.

"Eh, I suppose you should take your time. It's a lot to consider. Funny you should have to start all over now, considering we all thought..."

Gobber trailed off suddenly, and when Hiccup glanced up, he noticed his mentor was staring out of the smithy window, lips in a tight, thin line. Something told him he should not look. He knew what he would see, but his interest was piqued. He turned and was struck with a powerful surge of jealousy and anger as predictable as the annual dragon migration. He tried to wrestle it down, telling himself there was no reason to care when Astrid hung on Stefnir's arm as they strolled by. He told himself he never had strong enough feelings for her, so it did not hurt when she smiled up at her boyfriend with simpering eyes. It was not a crime, Hiccup had to remind himself, that Astrid had not fallen in love with him, instead. He was being petty, he knew, when he had a passing fantasy of Stefnir struck down by lightning. He hated himself for going there, for allowing that moment of weakness. His heart trembled in resistance as he forced all of the negativity back into the depths of it, containing all of that pain behind his chains of apathy.

He may have had a lapse of emotional fortitude, but he had not reacted visibly. Gobber was still eyeing him as if he was anticipating a display of anguish, but he would not see it. Hiccup simply returned to work with a placid facade, though his hands shook as he held the leather stamp upright.

"I'm not sure why everyone was so convinced that Astrid and I would ever-_damn it!_"

Hiccup had swung the mallet too hard and the stamp chewed a conspicuous divet in the leather. He dropped his tools and braced his irritable hands against the workbench, taking a deep, steadying breath. He closed his eyes and exhaled, willing his tense shoulders to relax.

Gobber patted him on the back and there was something infuriatingly _knowing_ about the look the older man gave. Hiccup felt the stirrings of embarrassment.

"We'll just give the Eklunds a discount," Gobber said with even air, as if such blunders occurred every day.

Hiccup buried his face in his right hand, shaking his head.

"You can also cover for me tomorrow afternoon. I have to make a house call fer a Zippleback with a pretty nasty overbite. _Then_ we can call it even."

Hiccup raised his other hand in halfhearted acknowledgment.

* * *

Such a nice summer day sank Hiccup's mood even lower as he paid his debt to Gobber in the stifling smithy. He spent as much time as he could lounging by the window between completing orders, catching a pleasant breeze every now and then. Gobber should not have taken the duration of the afternoon for his dragon dentistry trade, but Hiccup suspected his mentor's absence was intentional. The older Viking had, no doubt, shirked his duties as blacksmith in the interest of giving Hiccup time and space to clear his head. Effective strategy, sure enough. Hiccup poured his energy into projects, but he envied the Hooligans enjoying the gorgeous weather on their dragons, soaring through the sky. As cathartic as working could be, nothing soothed mental disquiet quite like flying.

Crisp blue gradually gave way to bands of vibrant orange and pink as the sun crept closer to the horizon. Dusk was drawing nearer and Hiccup would have missed his entire afternoon and a good chunk of the early evening. Toothless would be wound up when they made it home, fidgeting persistently until Hiccup's nerves grated too thin to deny the Night Fury any longer. Hiccup was exhausted physically, mentally..._emotionally_. The effort that went into determinedly _not_ caring about much of anything was taxing to all aspects of his well-being. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, expecting Gobber to return any minute and free him from his punishment, but fate was never that kind to him.

"Hiccup!"

He would have wept with vexation if his spirits had the capacity have to sink any lower. He braced himself for the inevitable drain on the last flickers of energy he could afford to spare.

He glanced up to see Astrid running towards him battle-axe in hand.

He eyed the axe in her hand and prayed to the Allfather she had brought him a task he could sufficiently occupy himself with as she prattled on about Stefnir, as she likely would. That way he could block her out, chiming in with "mhmm," and "yeah," wherever appropriate to give the impression that he was listening.

"I need it sharpened," Astrid said, holding out her axe. She almost sounded apologetic.

"Again?" Hiccup mused, raising his eyebrows. "You must bring it in here at least every other week. Usually on the days that I'm here..."

"I know," Astrid sighed, "but the guys insist on a ridiculous amount of practice to keep their skills fresh. I just want the blade as sharp as possible, so I can keep up. A duller blade increases the effort and energy expenditure. You've always preached to me the merits of routine weapon maintenance."

"There's routine and then there's obsessive. I think you fall into the second category," he remarked. "You can _over_-sharpen it."

Astrid smiled ruefully and replied, "My axe is lighter. It's not as durable and it wears down faster."

She had to be joking. He was well acquainted with her battle-axe, being her personal weaponsmith much to his dismay. There was nothing flimsy about her weapon. He knew that for certain, having modified it before at her request. Hers held up better than most, especially if _he_ worked on it.

"So, get a stronger axe?" he suggested.

She laughed, but it sounded forced, just like the majority of their communication. Her axe used to be her mother's, and Astrid was unusually sentimental about it. She swatted at him with her free hand and teased, "Got any Gronkle iron just lying around? I may take you up on that."

"Yeah. Not happening."

"Well, then what are you going to do about this?" she asked, nodding down at the axe in her hand.

Reluctantly, he took it from her and examined the amount of wear and tear on the blade. There was next to none, and he was not at all surprised. She was wasting his time again for no other reason than she seemed to enjoy it. He was convinced of it, but did not have the slightest idea why she found their strained interactions entertaining.

His eyes and hands roamed over the axe in its entirety, just to be thorough. A part of him also hoped, if he stalled for a while, Gobber would return and he could pass the job along.

An awkward silence settled between him and Astrid, not that it was anything unusual. She rocked up onto her toes as she glanced around the shop she had visited dozens of times, pretending to be fascinated. She seemed more tense around him than usual, but he was not particularly interested in her troubles. He had not been for a while.

He decided he could not reasonably hold off any longer and resigned himself to fulfilling her request.

"Don't worry. I will have this back to you in no time," he said breaking the silence, taking the axe over to the grindstone.

Astrid followed him. She always stood too close as he worked; not enough to endanger herself, but close enough to make his hair stand on end. He used to feel nervous, but he had become so familiar with the discomfort of her presence that he hardly noticed the way his body tensed without a thought.

He ignored her and turned the crank handle until the stone gathered the proper momentum. Very carefully, he sharpened the first blade against it.

He was keenly aware of the small steps Astrid was taking toward him. He had nearly sliced his fingers off the very first time she had sneaked up behind him and buried her fingers in his hair while he worked the grindstone. That had been nearly two years ago, but he learned to anticipate the gentle tug on his russet locks, so he did not flinch when she started twisting the first of two identical braids.

"You normally leave them in," Astrid commented just above a whisper. She was being slower than usual and Hiccup was frustrated with the lack of purpose to her movements. "I guess it's my lucky day."

He shrugged and flipped the axe over without a reply, for he was far too annoyed to say anything civil. He turned the crank again before sharpening the other side, and Astrid begun working on the second braid at the same time. It was odd that her fingers glided despondently through his hair, but odder still was the way she held the end of the braid between her fingers just a little too long. Her hands had been known to linger more than they should, but she remained frozen while he finished her axe. The prolonged contact that was atypical for even her brand of torment. He could not see her face; he did not dare glance back with a lethal weapon pressed against a spinning grindstone. But he could feel the trembling of her fingers against his scalp.

There was a small part of him that felt a twinge of concern laced with an unhealthy curiosity that would be best for him to ignore. He did not want to ask, because he could not let Astrid get to him. But she was hurting then; and it roused something in him; something honorable that compelled him to want to be the shoulder she needed, even if it would never be reciprocated. He bit it back, teetering on a knife's edge.

He was finished with the battle-axe, realizing he had been holding it idly in his lap while the grindstone continued to spin as it slowed.

"It's finished," Hiccup announced. He straightened up and Astrid released him; but she still had the fretful look in her eyes that made him uneasy.

Something was building; something significant that he could not name, hovering thickly in the air between them. He could feel it coming: the impending blow after months of being worn away by the ebb and flow of Astrid's peculiar affection for him. Only one thing Hiccup could think of-one sensible thing-was catastrophic enough to warrant such heaviness.

He knew what she wanted to say before the words left her mouth.

"Stefnir and I are entering a marriage contract next month," she said, not nearly as delighted as he expected her to be. "I...Well, I just thought you should know..."

Hiccup's heart ceased to beat for what felt like an eternity. His grip tightened on her battle-axe and he felt a lump rising in his throat as he fought the urge to scream, swear, throw something; all seemed equally appealing. Her announcement was rather abrupt, and she was gazing at him unwavering, searching him for some kind, any kind of reaction.

But what could he say? The he protested? On what grounds?

If there was one thing that could shatter all pretense of his indifference, it was marriage. Specifically, Astrid's marriage. To _anyone_ else. Still, while she simply had a boyfriend, Hiccup could deal with it, stoking the small flame of hope he regularly denied was there. Even though Astrid had never shown any evidence that she planned to leave Stefnir, there was something less threatening about the word "boyfriend" when compared to"husband". Marriage seemed more permanent, and more insurmountable for their tepid relationship. Whatever Hiccup wanted to say or shout just then he knew would ultimately amount to nothing more than irritating old scar, rubbing them raw until they bled.

He thrust the axe back into her arms. With the greatest effort he managed an insincere smile and a simple, "Congratulations."

Astrid's expression hardened. Perhaps Hiccup was not as convincing as he had hoped?

"Yeah? You're actually…happy for me?" she asked, measuring each word.

"Of course!" Hiccup replied. "Why _wouldn't_ I be happy for you? That's...that's exciting."

Astrid's brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly thought better of it. She closed it again, examining her axe instead.

"How much do I owe you?" She asked so quietly, Hiccup had to lean in to hear her.

"Nothing. My gift to you…for the, uh, whole marriage…thing."

"Thanks, Hiccup," she said in a reserved tone. Now she was the one who would not look at him.

Hiccup did not understand it. She appeared disheartened at the thought of marrying her paragon of Vikingness. She looked decidedly…_not_ Astrid. Had Hiccup said something to upset her? What could he have—?

_No_.

He was not going to let himself go down that path. He did not pretend to understand Astrid Hofferson's motivations, nor her feelings. He was not going to let himself get sucked back in, to care. Her feelings, good or bad, were not his concern anymore. They no longer confided in each other. Those days of mutual vulnerability were long gone. Astrid was Svenson's problem. Hiccup just wanted her gone as soon as he could persuade her to leave.

"Have a good day, Astrid," he said, still wearing a dishonest grin. "And I mean it, really. Congratulations."

Without another word he turned his back to her and pretended to busy himself with another project until she was well out of sight. She left quickly, much to his relief. When, and only when, he was sure she was gone, did he let out the breath he was holding. He dropped to his knees, feeling like all the air had been stolen from his lungs; stolen from the whole world.

He had tried. Odin Allfather, how he had _tried, _for two long years. He had been winning, too; winning the unrelenting battle with his weak heart. Maybe, in another month or so, he could have started looking at other girls the way he used to look at Astrid?

On second thought, that was laughable.

The pain from their estrangement had never vanished, but like the dull aches where his flesh met his prosthetic leg, he had learned to live with it. Deal with it. Manage it. Then, out of nowhere, Astrid delivered a mortal blow like a lightening bolt from Thor, himself.

Hiccup's mind was reeling with a myriad of questions.

What right did she have to toy with him over and over again, whenever she needed amusement? Would her marriage make things better between them, finally severing the ties that kept them bound in misery? Or would she always kick him while he was down because she enjoyed his emotional struggles?

Suddenly, it was much too hot, and much too difficult to breathe. Hiccup gathered himself up from the ground and tore off his smithy's apron like it was on fire. He knew he was under orders from Gobber to watch the shop in his absence, but he did not care. Berk would not fall to ruin because the forge closed for one evening. Hiccup, however, he might die if he did not escape. He shut down the shop in record time.

He needed to be away from Berk. Away from everyone. Away from _her._

He ran into the village center, placing his fingers in his mouth and whistling for Toothless. Unlike people, his dragon did not disappoint him. In an instant the Night Fury was by his side.

Hiccup climbed into the saddle and locked his prosthetic foot into the tail fin mechanism.

"I need you to get me out of here, Toothless," he told the dragon, patting his thick, scaly neck. "As fast and as far as you can, bud."

Toothless did not know the circumstances, but he was clever enough to sense the urgency. He let out a small growl of acknowledgement as he stretched out his wings.

* * *

Astrid paced alone in her room, wringing her hands as she worked up the nerve to fulfill her promise to Stefnir. She _had _to tell Hiccup and the other teens about her engagement, but how to find the right words when things were no longer as easygoing as they had once been? Several times, she almost talked herself out of it; but there was only so long she could procrastinate. There were no more satisfying excuses left.

She debated telling Fishlegs first, gauging his reaction and moving on from there. The Twins would be next, followed by Snotlout, whose reaction would be imbecilic, no doubt. Last, of course, would be Hiccup. Maybe by the time she spoke to him, she would be numb to any shock and indignation he might display?

Then, she realized she was being juvenile.

She shook her head and gave herself a gut check.

Cowardice would not help matters. She knew it would be best to tell Hiccup before anyone else, lest he hear it from another source; get the most painful encounter over with, instead of walking around in nervous anticipation of it.

She cracked her neck and shook her limbs and fingers loose, working out her jitters. She was stronger than the silly girl in fear of an old, inconsequential flame. Hiccup was no more terrifying than any other obstacle she had ever faced. In fact, with his aloof demeanor, what reason did she have to be nervous at all? He would likely take the news in stride...

She silenced the voice telling her she would rather fight a Skrill than tell Hiccup she was to be married.

After two years, Astrid could not recall at what point he had turned indifferent towards her. Perhaps it was a practice she should adopt? Hiccup did not seem to care anymore, so why should she? It was wasted effort. But, just when she was on the verge of letting him go, concentrating on Stefnir instead, he would catch her eye around Berk, or across the Great Hall during meals when she least expected it. He would always look away with a suddenness that tormented her.

Could he have feelings for her, still? Her heart fluttered at the thought, but then sharp reality cut back in. What difference _would _his feelings make? Neither one of them could undo the mess they were tangled in. Astrid could refuse to say the vows, or divorce Stefnir shortly after they were wed...and bring undue disgrace on her family by the baseless dissolution of a marriage that was legitimate and had not yet had the chance to thrive.

She could not do it; it simply was not in her. Her family name and pride were everything.

Seizing her axe, she bolted out of her house. She made a beeline for the smithy and hoped he was there, knowing she had to tell Hiccup while she still had the courage to do so.

To her relief and distress, she found him filling in for Gobber and looking miserable about it. He glanced up as he saw her coming, the expression on his face was unreadable. Was he happy to see her? Was he annoyed? She could not tell anymore. He was such a stranger to her.

She attempted to make small talk, giving him some feeble excuse that her axe was dull and needed sharpening, again. It was a lie, of course, and she knew upon examining the blade that he would know it too. But he did not press the issue. Hiccup never invited more conversation between them than he felt was necessary.

As he inspected her axe, realizing she was being foolish, her eyes scanned the rest of the shop. She fidgeted anxiously, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She could not look at his face while she built up the resolve to tell him of her engagement. There was something about him that was so disarming; something that made the prospect of telling him more upsetting than when she had just been pacing in her bedroom.

"Don't worry. I will have this back to you in no time," he said, breaking the awkward silence between them.

She followed as he approached the grindstone, turning the handle with the confidence of a skilled craftsman well-versed in weapon upkeep. His skill around the forge and all its parts never ceased to fascinate her. She watched with interest as he sharpened her axe, tiny sparks scattering from the wearing of metal against stone. He was not facing her, and that was best. She was not sure she would have been able to reach out and touch him otherwise. He did not jump or stiffen as she wove strands of his auburn hair into tiny plaits.

"You normally leave them in," Astrid commented softly. Her fingers were slow as she enjoyed the last opportunity she would have to put her hands on him with any sort of affection. "I guess it's my lucky day."

Hiccup did not respond. He just continued to work despite the absurdity of her.

Astrid's heart was heavy as she played with his hair. In essence, she would be telling Hiccup goodbye, slicing through whatever still existed between them with the sharp knife of matrimony. It was for the best, but she already felt an overwhelming sense of loss, for their friendship and for what might have become of them if her arranged marriage was not so binding.

She paused after the second braid, toying with it. Her heart would ache as soon as she released him, for that would be the beginning of the end of them. She began to shake, made anxious again by the enormity of removing Hiccup from her life...well, as much as she could, and as much as there was left to lose. Tense, though their relationship was, there was an ardent need to be close to him. That was why she braided his hair and sought him out. It was a craving of the soul that nothing, and no one else could satisfy.

"It's finished," Hiccup announced.

He straightened up so suddenly his hair slipped between her fingers, and Astrid felt like a dry sob would not have been inappropriate.

He turned and they stared at each other. Astrid felt her heart race from the way those green eyes considered her with an echo of apprehension. She had to blurt out something, or she would stay rooted to the spot in an eternal limbo, unable to completely hold them together, and not nearly strong enough to forever break them apart.

"Stefnir and I are entering a marriage contract next month," she said, and she could not muster the joy in her voice. "I...Well, I just thought you should know..."

She did not know what she had expected his reaction to be, and half of her anxiety was related to that uncertainty. Indignation and outrage was just as scathing as complete indifference, coming from Hiccup. She was prepared for either. She was _not_ prepared, for him to completely embrace the idea.

He shoved her axe back in her arms with excitement. He was grinning, and his eyes were alight with an enthusiasm she had not seen for two years. "Congratulations," he said, and it _hurt._

Astrid swallowed hard, and narrowed her eyes.

"Yeah? You're actually…happy for me?" she asked, not wanting to believe that after all of his standoffish behavior, he would come alive at the thought of her marrying another man.

"Of course!" Hiccup replied, injecting more enthusiasm into his voice to sound more honest. "Why _wouldn't_ I be happy for you? That's...that's exciting."

Astrid was profoundly bewildered, brow knitted as she consider his drastic mood swing. She tried to detect something else hidden there, deep beneath the surface, but all she saw was a genuine happiness for her. She had dreaded throwing up one last barrier between them, but Hiccup seemed pleased. In all honesty, it was worse than anger or indifference; it was the final confirmation he did not care, and probably never did; not to the extent she had once thought.

His question had likely been rhetorical, but she opened her mouth to say a number of things: how he loved her somewhere deep down in that frozen heart of his, that it should be him not Stefnir, and that the whole damn situation was unfair. but she bit held her tongue and said nothing. In that moment, she realized something, quite plainly: they were not Astrid and Hiccup, the two youths who tamed dragons together, defended Berk by day, and stole kisses in quiet moment alone. _He_ was the chief's son and _she _was another village girl. That was all they were to each other anymore.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, feeling a sharp ache in her chest that seemed to burrowing into her whole being.

"Nothing. My gift to you…for the, uh, whole marriage…thing."

"Thanks, Hiccup," she said softly, and she was not able to look at that kind, delighted face.

"Have a good day, Astrid; and I mean it, really. Congratulations."

He turned away to some project in as clear a dismissal of her as he ever gave, unaware that Astrid's mind was a deafening tempest of sadness and fury. Her chest heaved and her fingers tightened around the handle of her battle-axe, hoping the weapon would leech away some of her despair. Hiccup was not at fault. She knew that. Her resentment was irrational. She _knew_ that. Hiccup had only been supportive, which was something she had wanted from him for months, just not under the current circumstances. She wasselfish to want his affection on her terms, and she knew it; but it filled her with a clawing bitterness that she could only receive it over a marriage she did not want.

She turned on her heel and ran, wanting to put as much distance between herself and Hiccup's unintended cruelty. She rushed to the stables, to Stormfly, ignoring every wave or call that chased her from a friend or acquaintance.

Her Deadly Nadder perked up as she hurried down the stairs, nearly knocking Fishelgs off his feet. He flattened himself against the wall as much as he could with a startled gasp, and she did not utter so much as an apology. She was not feeling particularly compassionate. She stormed into her dragon's stall, and though the Nadder was used to seeing her upset, Astrid had never flown her while so inconsolable.

Astrid paced for a moment, threading her fingers though her blonde hair, unconcerned with whether she pulled it loose from her neat braid. Then, making up her mind, she roughly pulled her saddle from the wall.

The dragon eyed her warily.

"It's okay, girl," Astrid said, her voice cracking from tears she would not shed. "We're going on a little trip. Just for a few hours. I just need to get away from Berk for a while. That doesn't sound so bad, does it?"

Stormfly considered Astrid for a moment before she determined her human needed an escape, in that uncanny way dragons just seemed to know things.


	4. Chapter 4

The sky was deep purple; a dusky blanket of stars that grew brighter with sunset. Dark clouds were formless masses, ominous without their sunlit outlines.

Everything was more formidable in the dark.

Hiccup should have known that.

He should have _known_ that the burdensome hope lurking behind all his rational thought was actually stupidity. She was going to marry Stefnir, and that was the end of it. Any further anguish he felt would be the persistent foolishness of a one-sided infatuation.

The whole pathetic situation was not nearly as complicated when the extent of Astrid's disinterest came to light. Their relationship was platonic, sullied only by Hiccup's own selfish bitterness, thrown into stark relief with the announcement of her engagement.

He growled, more at himself than anything or anyone else.

Toothless was flying along his own course and Hiccup was his passive rider. Flexing his foot was second nature to now, performed almost involuntarily based of subtle cues from his dragon's shifting muscle. His mind was freed to wander, vulnerable to all his furious, self-disparaging thoughts.

He pressed his palms to his eyes and breathed. He was vaguely aware of the salty sea spray prickling along his skin like icy needles; and the fluttering of his tunic, circulating humid air over his body.

He uncovered his eyes, gazing out at the spreading dark of the evening. Time passed. Hiccup did not know how much.

"Toothless, where are we going?" he asked, clicking the Night Fury's tail fin into a new position when he felt the dragon begin to list.

Toothless warbled and Hiccup squinted in the waning light at a stretch of barren land distinguishable by the volcanic peak rising up from black sand. He had asked his Night Fury to take him far from Berk quick, fast, and in a hurry; but Dragon Island was not quite as far off the edge of the world as he had hoped to flee. Still, it was uninhabited by man or dragon, haunted by the memory of the Red Death. While dead, her tyrannical presence could still be felt in the in the reigning silence and the island's perpetual gloom.

The beach rushed closer and a small readjustment in Toothless's tail fin saw them safely to it. Sand was never kind to Hiccup's prosthesis, forcing him to readjust his stance often as the metal limb sank in the shifting grit. He would have chosen more solid ground, but Toothless gazed at him with rounded eyes and a soft growl seeking reassurance that his human counterpart was satisfied.

Hiccup's lips twitched, not a true smile, but sparing whatever shred of kindness he could for his best friend. He laid a hand on the dragon's scaly snout, and Toothless pressed into his touch.

Gulls shrieked above them, just visible. Toothless jerked his head, following their path with a curious snort.

Hiccup did not think it fair to keep his dragon with him as he basked in his misery.

"Go on, bud." He gave the Night Fury a gentle pat. A gesture of dismissal.

Toothless hesitated, barely turning away, warbling his reluctance. Hiccup nodded and his dragon lingered a moment longer before bounding off into the shadows, in search of whatever prey would best entertain him. With the Night Fury gone, Hiccup felt profoundly alone on that beach; but for once, that did not trouble him.

He trudged through the sand to the water's edge, watching the waves rolling in by the rising moonlight gleaming off the crests. A briny wind combed through his hair and cut through his tunic, the moisture in the air making his skin feel clammy.

Sighing, he sat down, just out of reach of the breaking surf. One knee bent, and the other leg folded beneath it, he leaned back on his hands, staring out into the dark expanse of the sea. Images flashed in his mind more vivid than the world around him. Old memories of kisses and smiles; and newer memories of cold stares and disappointed frowns; colors and fragments of conversations past which, at the time, had been all-consuming, but had ultimately amount to nothing. Sitting alone on Dragon Island with a heap of regret was all he had to show for two years of pretending he was above everything; for failing to see the bigger picture beyond his own selfish concerns.

He had been punishing Astrid under the pretense of safe-guarding his feelings; reading too much in her attempts at lukewarm friendship; expecting there was something deeper and intentionally hurtful there; claiming he no longer cared when, in reality, his feelings for her ravaged his subconscious, tucked away in the back of his mind and making a mess of things. How he managed to fool himself into thinking he was over Astrid was a mystery. Bitter silence was not indifference, and the occasional stab of jealousy was not apathy. All of the times his anger flared at the sight of her with Stefnir, and all of the times her presence irked him, and he still continued to pretend she no longer mattered; that _they_ no longer mattered, or rather, what they might have been no longer mattered.

Maybe she had a crush on him once: a girlish attraction to a boy who tamed wild dragons. Sure, he could see how that was appealing; but there was no depth to it beyond the ebb and flow of adolescent hormones. They were older now, and she found something more satisfying in whatever her relationship with Stefnir offered. Hiccup could not beat that, and he knew it. Holding it against Astrid was counterproductive to any sort of healing or reconciliation: a barrier to any civil interaction between them; for no other reason than Hiccup wanted what he could not have, unwilling to accept what_ was_ for the idea in his mind of what _should be_.

If he could take it back, he would have .It brought a lot of unnecessary pain when he should have been focused on moving forward with his life. His father had more than implied a political marriage. Such a notion was not an inherently despicable thing.

It made sense. For him, and for his people. Political marriage was the inevitable thing when no love was to be found on Berk. Astrid would be another man's wife. He had no other sensible prospects above allies' daughter. He could do it. He _would_ do it. In the morning, he would finally make peace with reality. He would mean it the next time he congratulated Astrid. He would go to his father and tell him to start working diplomacy with other tribes. He would go on to take a strange bride from a strange tribe and provide Berk with an heir.

He could learn to be pleased with it, too.

After he spent one last night lamenting everything.

* * *

Stormfly landed gracefully, spraying a little sand as her claws gripped the damp earth. Dragon Island was about as far from Berk as Astrid was willing to fly that night, and remote enough to privately shout all manner of swears at the gods, should she feel so inclined. She slid out of her saddle, crouching low as her feet his the beach. She straightened up with a shaky breath and a lump in her throat, swallowing hard like she might choke on a trapped scream.

The stars twinkled above her, a beautiful mockery: little viewing points for the gods to watch her struggle. "

Damn you," she hissed through clenched teeth, feeling a stinging in her eyes unrelated to the salt in the air.

She paced, lacing her fingers together and running them over her head with a long, slow exhale. She looked to her left at the colossal bones of the Red Death, like twisted, grotesque shadows to rudely remind her of a day she wanted to forget: when Hiccup nearly lost his life, but gained her fullest adoration. She should have told him then how she felt; she should have told him so many, many things: her marriage was arranged. That was at the top of the list.

She had never wanted it, never asked for it. Her parents had sprung it on her one evening when she had come home from academy business. The deal had been struck before she could crawl: before she showed she had any prowess in battle, that she could survive as a shieldmaiden not beholden to any man for her welfare. A deal, to better her family and protect their assets, uniting with another clan of repute, seeking more influence on the chief's council. Strategic social advancement: that was what it was about, for the Svensons. In return, Astrid would be cared and provided for, should her husband fall in battle with dragons or Berk's enemies. That was the rationale behind it, and all the arranged marriages made at the time. They were meant to provide a young lady with means when war could take her husband early in life. But such a system became antiquated as soon as there was peace with dragons. The practice had quickly fallen out of favor before many youths their age could fall victim to it. Some families, however, still clung to old ways, be it for tradition or power-grabbing. Or, in the Hoffersons' case, because they felt honor-bound to uphold withstanding arrangements.

Astrid had been furious. She felt betrayed by her parents, making her into an object for barter. On top of all that, her mother had known of her attraction to Hiccup, even when her father was clueless. Astrid would have denied it then, if anyone asked her outright; it was a matter of pride to a foolish girl to whom being tough meant everything.

She did not feel tough any longer, made brittle under the weight of a false affection for her intended husband and Hiccup's cool, distant demeanor. She could handle one or the other, but not both.

Perhaps it was what she deserved for her duplicity? For lying to Stefnir, to Hiccup, and to everyone. It would have been easier to tell the truth in the beginning, but her parents had made the finality of the deal abundantly clear. She had thought, at the time, the truth was too messy; to many feelings that would lead to nowhere, if she was, indeed, bound to marry Stefnir. Playing along seemed less complicated at the time, since marriage still was still a far-off, abstract concept to a fifteen-year-old. Astrid would do what was expected of her, because that was who she was; she respected her parents and traditions.

For a time. Until her friendship with Hiccup became collateral damage.

Then, everything was suddenly much harder than she anticipated, but the lie was already set in motion. The longer it went on, the harder being honest became; the more harm it would do, and the more shame it would bring. She was not one disappoint and stir up trouble, so she kept pretending; kept pulling Hiccup in only to push him away, while she held her future husband at a comfortable distance from her heart.

Hiccup was always trying to simplify the situation by doing what she could not. He saw the futility in a continued friendship, so he drifted his separate way; and Astrid had grated on his kindness by holding on to him just tight enough until there was nothing left to squeeze from him anymore.

She had come to Dragon Island to finally let go, painfully wrenching her delusions from her heart and setting them adrift in the tide. She had come to lay to rest the two carefree youths she had once known so well.

Stormfly growled, trudging through the sand to nudge her rider. Astrid turned, running her hand over her dragon's neck, before burying her face in those familiar scales.

"I'll be alright. At least I have you, Stormfly," she murmured, scrunching her eyes shut as they burned and blurred with tears of self-pity she would not shed. Her lip trembled and she bit the inside to make it stop.

She stood there, face pressed into her dragon as the sea tried to sing her its soothing melody. While it was unhelpful, it was better than lying curled up in her bed, staring out of her window at the chief's house as she reflected on everything she had done, hating herself for it.

It crossed her mind that her parents or Stefnir might wonder where she was; but it was a fleeting concern eclipsed by her own need to decompress. She could have stayed there on that beach all night, everyone else be damned.

Her dragon, however, was not content to let her wallow in all of her unhappiness. Stormfly started to fidget, then squawk. Astrid pushed back, staring at her dragon in confusion. But Stormfly gazed past her. Something moved toward them in darkness. Astrid could hear its heavy strides; but her dragon did not seem threatened. Instead, the Nadder took a few steps forward, flapping her wings in a jubilant greeting. Astrid's fingers twitched for her axe, fastened to her dragon.

"Stormfly, what are you-?"

Eyes. Large, feral eyes stalked toward them, with a warble that made Astrid's heart flutter, before being cutting her with a nauseating realization.

"Toothless," she gasped; and a thin veneer of sweat broke out across her hairline.

If the Night Fury was there, then so was Hiccup. And that was as terrifying.

She reached out for Stormfly, resolved to return home to Berk. She felt stupid fore leaving in the first place. Her impulsive quest for solitude had only brought her around Hiccup again. He was inescapable.

Her hand rested on her saddle, curling in the weathered strap she often used to hoist herself up.

She paused.

Hiccup _was_ inescapable. Their village was not too large; and her weapon would need maintenance on occasion; their paths were bound to cross in the sky; and he was going to be the chief someday. She could not duck into buildings or whip around to avert her gaze every time he walked by. She refused to spend a lifetime of dodging and hiding, even if it would hurt to face him. Nerves would eventually dull to pain with enough chaffing.

Alone, on the island, away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers, Astrid could finally explain everything to him. She doubted it would change anything, but at least her conscience would be cleared. Then she could lay their friendship to rest indefinitely, knowing there was no more left unsaid between them. She did not expect Hiccup to care, but she felt she owed it to him for who they used to be.

She patted Toothless and the dragon crooned, always glad to see her even if his rider was not.

"Where's Hiccup?" she asked. "Take me to him?"

Toothless cocked his head as he processed her request. She climbed on Stormfly's back, but the Night Fury did not keep her waiting. He raced off into the shadows, and Astrid did not need to urge her dragon forward; Stormfly was already flying after him.

* * *

Hiccup stood slowly, brushing the sand from his hands. His heart was pounding in his head. Astrid was the very last person he expected or wanted to see. His shock gave way to angry disbelief.

Even when he had been prepared to give up, she had that unnatural ability to find him, just to make things more difficult than they already were. It was as if she existed to do nothing else. Coincidence had likely brought her there, but it did nothing to diminish his vexation. He could shout or curse from the overwhelming injustice.

She dismounted Stormfly, but she did not come toward him. Instead, she stared at him as if she could sense the raging bitter storm underneath his even exterior. There was only a short stretch of beach between them, but it felt far too close, and yet a world apart. They gazed at each other, their thoughts no longer mutually discernible as they had been just two years before.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, wanting to convey his indignation, he only sounded mildly annoyed and emotionally spent.

Astrid floundered for a moment. It was a simple question requiring no elaborate answer, and yet she seemed at a loss. Skittish, even. More so than he had ever seen her.

"Hiccup, I know you don't really want to see me." She started to approach him and he took a couple of steps back.

"I don't know _why_ you would think that." Sarcasm would be his shield. "I regularly come to deserted islands for the company." The rolling waves lapped at his ankles, but Astrid kept advancing.

"I didn't know you'd be here, obviously." Silver moonbeams flashed off the studs of her headband and rested in her hair, brilliant in a way Hiccup wished he had not noticed.

"_Obviously_. Like you didn't follow me here after I left the forge?"

Astrid's brow furrowed. "Why would I follow you? I thought you were still back there, working on some new project or whatever task Gobber set for you."

"I see. So, you wanted to be alone. I'd be delighted to oblige." Hiccup turned his eyes on Toothless, gesturing for the dragon to come to him; but the Night Fury only balked and growled an apology.

"Don't leave! Now that you're here I...I want to talk you. To explain. It's kind of important."

"Explain to me why you're marrying your boyfriend of the past two years?" His voice was too flat, even for him. "I think I can figure that one on my own, Astrid."

"There's a lot more too it than that."

Hiccup set his jaw, brushing past her. They had already exchanged enough words in the smithy. He made a beeline for Toothless, no nearer to making peace with reality if he lingered with Astrid.

"I'm not much of the type for planning weddings, if that's what you're getting at."

"No, I-"

"And I'm too busy with work to craft your wedding bands." It was a lie, but he needed an excuse to avoid her in the coming weeks.

Astrid did not know it, but it would be better for the both of them in the long run, so he climbed into his saddle. Toothless crouched with a plaintive warble and wide eyes, but he could be comforted later when Hiccup was calm enough to soothe and explain like the dragon might understand.

"Gobber would be a better choice," he added.

"Hiccup, don't." There was something in her voice, but he probably imagined it, because Astrid Hofferson did not plead.

"You'll have a lovely wedding, I'm sure of it." He fixed his prosthesis to Toothless's. He ignored his dragon's protests. "It will be a half-week-long celebration, at least. Berk will be just _thrilled_."

"Hiccup-"

"There will be more offers to help than you know what do to with. Why would you even need my help?"

"That's not-"

He was being petty again. Facetious; hurting like he felt he was entitled to do.

He breathed deeply, forcing the most insincere benignity in hope he could make them both believe it.

He opened Toothless's tail fin, preparing to fly off and put an end to the disaster of their strained relationship. "It's exciting, though. Really. I'm very happy for-"

"Gods damn it, Hiccup! It's _arranged!_" she blurted out, digging her fingers in his sleeve to wrest his attention back to her. "The whole marriage! _I_ never wanted this!"

Her outburst left a ringing silence in its wake, save for the squawking of gulls and the eternal rush of the sea.

* * *

Astrid's face was burning, and she was glad for the lack of daylight to hide the rosy curse of a fair complexion. She released her grip on Hiccup. He was sitting astride Toothless, just _staring_ at her. He did not say anything, and the expression on his face was unusual. She did not know what to call it. He looked surprised, but also irritated. His eyebrows wavered somewhere between the two. There was a faint curl to his lip, though she did not know if it was disgust or disbelief.

"What do you mean it's arranged?" he asked. He rolled his shoulders back so he was sitting upright. Gods, he had gotten so tall.

She cleared her throat, hands on her hips. She wanted to regain some composure, to feel like she had some measure of control to such a long awaited conversation. "I would think, Hiccup, you're smart enough to know what that means."

He sat, poised on his dragon for another moment, considering her with an intensity that Astrid had not seen from him for a long while. She felt like she stood an eternity under his scrutiny.

Finally, his face softened, but not anywhere near the point of friendliness. He dismounted Toothless, holding fast to his saddle. He was not looking at her then, gaze fixed to the sand. She wished she could decipher it, whenever he thought that loudly. His mind shouted out words at her, but her ears were not tuned to hear them.

"You're not marrying Stefnir because you love him."

"Does it _matter_, Hiccup?"

He hesitated.

"No. It doesn't," was the answer he gave; but not the one Astrid suspected he wanted to say. His feet were firmly planted on the ground. He was not trying to run; he was engaging her, for once.

"I don't want to talk about whatever feelings I may or may not have for Stef, okay?"

"_Stef?_ Adorable. Did he come up with that one? Points for originality."

"Hiccup..." Astrid was huffed, dropping her arms to her sides.

He was being unusually abrasive, and she could not begin to imagine why. He had no interest in her romantically; that much was plain. She did not understand why know she had no control over her fate aggravated him.

"If you don't want to talk about him, what is the point of bringing up your impending marriage at all? Why bother telling me it's arranged?" he scowled. "What does it accomplish?"

"Because I'm hoping it'll change things."

"As far as I know, you're still going to marry him."

"Yes. But that's not the point."

"Then nothing's changed. You and he are-"

"No. Change things...between _us, _Hiccup." She gestured between them emphatically.

"Us?"

Astrid nodded. Just getting that far had been exhausting.

Hiccup withdrew his hand from his saddle and turned toward her fully. "What is 'us', Astrid? What is there to change?"

"All of it. Hiccup, we've lost something. I want to get it back, if that's even possible."

He moved toward her, closing the distance between them. Her breath caught.

"I've spent two years trying to convince myself that all of those kisses and flirting didn't mean anything. You're trying to tell me now that they did, once?"

"They _still_ mean something."

Hiccup actually laughed, but it was humorless. "Does Stefnir know that?"

"No. He thinks you're little more than a friend to me now."

"Not even that, Astrid."

He turned back for his dragon but she lunged forward, seizing him by the shoulder and spinning him around. The floodgates had opened, and she was not going to leave things there. Reconciliation or not, there would be an end to all of it, right there on that beach.

"You've never been cruel. You said you don't hate me. You...congratulated me on my engagement. Now you're so distant. You won't talk to me for more than a few minutes. You avoid me. Hiccup, I could freeze to death from that icy wind blowing off your cold shoulder!"

"You have Stefnir to keep you warm. You're not marrying for love, but you care for him. What, then, could you possibly want from me? You made it clear two years ago that you'd be just fine without me around, and now you're trying to tell me you're not? So all of the toying with me you've done has been to get back in my good graces? I guess is must really be miserable for you to have only one guy to jerk around."

"_Don't_ presume you know how I feel!" She brandished a finger at him. "I was trying to salvage something that you, apparently, lost interest in. Come to find out, you've been stewing in bitterness this whole time? We can put a patch on things, Hiccup. I'm sorry it's taken this long. I should have told you the truth two years go. I never told you I had to marry Stefnir because I was trying to save you the disappointment."

"Right. Replace it with a different kind. Makes sense," he scoffed

Astrid's mind was reeling. She was so livid with his flippant comments, and hurt by his persistent disdain. Her heart ached with guilt and indignation, knowing the whole two years she had thought he simply did not care, he was inwardly seething. Things were more dire, and they were at a crossroads. The way back to yesteryear's rapport was blocked by their foolishness; but the two roads ahead diverged. Down one path, they parted ways completely; down the other, they found a tepid friendship always undermined by the truth that they could have been something more if only given the opportunity. Both roads were unsatisfying in their own right; and Astrid frantically scanned the horizon for a third option.

"If you can look me in the eye, right now, and tell me that you hate me; if you can honestly say you're not interested in any kind of friendship between us anymore...then I'll leave you alone. I'll go on to marry Stefnir, and you can go on holding your grudge and marry...some daughter of another chieftain, I suppose. We'll coexist in our miserable, parallel lives," Astrid said. "But you have to look at me now and _mean_ it!"

She was trembling, leaning in and rising up on her toes to make herself taller as she delivered her challenge. Hiccup was gazing down at her, folding his arms across his chest. He did not answer her, but he was thinking loudly to himself again. She could see it in his eyes as they stood so close. He was no longer frustrated; he appeared more dumbfounded than anything else, almost in a mental panic. If he was so resolute-so determined to cast her aside-the answer should have been quick and sure.

But he stalled.

"I'm not interested in just a friendship with you, Astrid." His tone was sincere. He had meant what he said, but his eyes were laced with regret as the words left his mouth.

So he was not interested in friendship; he was genuine about that. But so were his eyes telling her there was a follow up to that statement; an implied "but" he would not speak. It was there nevertheless, in the utterance of _just._

In his reluctance, Astrid had found the third option. The hidden road.

"Good," she replied. "Because either am I."

She seized him collar of his tunic and pulled him down the short distance into a desperate kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

A ringing cacophony and an eerie stillness; Hiccup's mind was reeling, both a roiling mass of thoughts and a froze well of disbelief. His fingers trembled with joy and fury, gripping Astrid's arms, indecisive whether to push her away or pull her closer.

Her lips were agony pressed against his; soft petals that tasted sweet, but imbued with a venom to kill the last vestiges of his common sense. He had wanted to taste her kiss again; he c_raved_ it for far too long. As an unspoken and desperate hope was finally realized, the bile rose in his throat, bubbling up from the pit of his stomach as a sickening reminder of how inherently wrong it was.

A nauseous rage rippled though him. The pads of his fingers pressed into her skin with a bruising force. He tore her away from him with a gasp of relief and guilty disappointment. He could breathe again, and he hated that. He despised himself more for resenting the parting of their lips.

"No." He muttered, staring at their feet: three boots and one prosthesis, caked with black sand. "_No_," he repeated firmer. Louder. Trying to convince both of them he did not want it. Or, at the very least, they did not _want_ to want it.

Astrid tried to reach for him, to touch his face with a tenderness that might shatter him. "Hiccup-"

"No!" He jerked away, scowling; and the proud and fierce Astrid Hofferson balked. Anger was swelling inside him, feeding off the renewed energy of suppressed heartache working its way to the surface, two years too late. "You don't get to do that, acting now like you care!"

Astrid reached up to stroke the end of her braid: a mindless habit whenever she needed something to busy anxious hands. "I never stopped caring," she replied evenly. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. That's why all this hurts."

Hiccup could not imagine she understood the extent of the pain she had inflicted on him; and was continuing to inflict right there, on that beach. How laughable it was, then, that she claimed to be suffering too.

He scoffed, squaring his jaw. "Then, why now? Why here, when there is nothing either of us can do to fix it? You're going to marry Stefnir, so what is it about stringing me along that is so damn appealing?"

There was concentrated blame in her eyes, directed him as if he was the cause of everything. "I can't seem to get over you. That's my problem-mine as much as it is yours."

Victim _and_ perpetrator; she wanted to be both.

"Obviously it's my problem, since I can't ever seem to get away from you!" Hiccup snapped. He was done with all of it and prepared to let old wounds fester instead of ripping open new ones. "I've tried, then you kept coming around and making it impossible for me to get past this; to get past_ us-_whatever the Hel we used to be! I'm tired, Astrid. Tired of not being anything more than your source of twisted entertainment!"

Astrid was indignant. Good. Perhaps she might storm off and leave him alone, broken beyond any futile attempts at repair.

"Is that what you really think I was doing?" she asked, eyes alight with mirrored outrage.

"Am I wrong?"

"I don't get any pleasure from this, Hiccup! Don't you think I would've stopped it if I could? But it's you; it's everything that is so infuriatingly _you_!"

He did not know why they continued to shout and insult when it would accomplish nothing. Before the lingering ghosts of old, mutual attraction had come to light, there was nothing to debate, nothing to lament; at least, not mutually. Their misery was their own, and there was nothing to be gained between them. It would have been better to remain ignorant. There were no prizes to be awarded for their candor now.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Let me become someone else to make _your_ life simpler!" Hiccup snapped.

"I don't _want_ you to be anyone else, Hiccup! I just want..." Astrid smoothed her hands over her hair, glancing toward the night sky.

"What? Want _what?_ Me to be content with being your man on the side? To act like the past two years didn't happen?"

Astrid stared at him, her gaze unwavering as it bore into him with its disarming significance."You. Hiccup, I want _you_." Her voice was faint and small, barely above a whisper; defeated and vulnerable in a way Hiccup was not prepared to handle. Not when that tone was wrapped those words. "I want you to myself," she added, "and I want you to come alive again, like you used to be. You're the one I want, not Stefnir."

And there it was. The final blow laid in the admission that she wanted him.

Hiccup could not bear the weight of his unhappiness any longer. Two years of a meticulous crafted wall between himself and feelings crumbled in an instant; and he was suddenly drowning from the enormity of his despair. Knowing Astrid's heart made everything impossibly worse, because there was no erasing it from his mind while they trudged down their diverging paths. She was the unobtainable, wanting him while she was with her husband-to-be. Hiccup, wanting her still while he was with his future wife, whomever she happened to be. Looks of longing would always pass between them, around Berk and in the Great Hall; but they would go home to other people with the knowledge someone else was touching the very skin their fingers yearned for.

His chest tightened like a vice. For the first time in a while, he was truly vulnerable, and Astrid could destroy him totally, if she desired it.

"Don't," he pleaded, voice breaking around the lump in his throat. He stepped back, shaking his head with an extended hand to keep her at bay.

"This whole thing is a mess I don't know how to un-complicate..." Astrid took a step forward, advancing on him while he was falling apart.

He was unable to do anything but stare into those plaintive blue eyes, gorgeous and damning. Her hand slid over his shoulder, down the ridge of his collarbone to his chest, stinging him with its unnecessary affection.

"_Don't_," he practically choked, seizing her wrist to stop its lethal descent.

"I should do what's expected of me and be happy with Stefnir. I've really tried, you know. I don't have much of a choice. It was supposed to be easy for me because doing what's expected is all I've ever done, but...I just can't..." She hesitated, caught on her words. The entire world seemed to stop spinning for them. "...I just can't seem to fall out of love with you."

The proverbial coil in Hiccup's stomach snapped. His gasp was jagged-almost a dry sob-fingers convulsing against Astrid's thin wrist. He could not speak; he had no more words to give. He was transfixed by his hand on her arm, and her hand on his chest. It was the first contact between them in a long while that was not repulsive, but no other touch could compare tp how badly it hurt.

Astrid's other hand caressed his cheek, and his eyes fluttered closed as her thumb brushed over his skin. He supposed it was meant to be comforting, like the way she swept her searing fingertips over the angles of his face, coming to rest feather-light on his chin, tracing the old scar there. Then, that same torturous hand was gliding around to the back of his head, through his hair with an almost demanding reassurance. _Feel better_, it insisted. _Be okay with this._

He surrendered to her, leaning forward as her touch urged him to do, until his forehead was against hers. Everything in him felt limp and expended, so he relied on the support from the same person who had beaten him down until he had no fight left. He caved to the feelings that would only shred him apart later when they faced the unchanging reality of Astrid's engagement. He released her wrist and placed his hand on her lower back, wanting her closer to him, for he had no more strength to push her away. He wanted to give in and be consumed by the fire.

She had always made him so woefully pathetic.

* * *

Astrid's breath hitched when Hiccup guided her up against him. She had forgotten how gentle he could be, especially when he had been fuming at her only moments before; an echo of the long-buried compassion she used to know.

There had been a change in him: a relenting that she had not anticipated; an instant failing of his temper.. She felt the tension evaporate from his body, all of the resentment morphing into palpable defeat. She had not intended for things to unfold that way. She had only wanted to talk to him, to explain; but then Hiccup lips had been as wonderful as she imagined they would be, two years later. She should not have kissed him and she knew it.

The sluice gate opened to release a bitter torrent she was not sure either one of them could stop now. He had thought she was toying with him, that she somehow _liked_ all those days enduring his cool indifference and the melancholy of braiding his hair. The angry, hard lines of his face had been a different kind of aggravation from that feigned apathy she had bought into.

He did not understand that it was an addiction, that she was compelled to be near him by something stronger than herself. That, if her presence was painful for him, then his was equally as painful for her. She could not keep herself from placing her hand on the glowing iron, inevitably burned by the fact that she was getting married and it _was not _to Hiccup.

But it should have been, though it was never supposed to be. So, they were caught in a toxic push-pull.

Her hands roamed over him, exploring what was familiar and strange: the maturing form of the boyish frame she once knew well. His back and shoulders were broader, more defined from riding dragons and a heavy blacksmith's hammer, solid beneath his tunic like she never would have guessed. He was still tall and lanky like the boy she initially fell for, but with the new, subtle musculature of the man she fiercely wanted. Hiccup, with all the unique allure of his inelegant awkwardness that kept her tethered, spinning helpless in his gravity.

She sighed, pressing her forehead against his. He withdrew slightly, but she cradled his head and held him in distressing proximity. She could sense his discomfort, see the clenching of his jaw, and feel the reluctance in his touch.

"Why?" he murmured, frayed. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"You know why," was her unsatisfactory reply; but she had already said it once: four letters of emotional condemnation. She would not explain herself a second time.

Their noses brushed as they shared a breath, hot, moist, and teeming with the energy of a gathering storm. Astrid could smell him: a combination of soot from the forge, leather, and the salt of the sea breeze that permeated everything around them.

"Hiccup," she whispered, imploring him for an equal response she had no right to ask of him. Her head tilted, seeking the faintest contact that was jarring to the core as her upper lip skimmed across his. She felt every nerve, every fiber, thrumming with a need for another taste of him. Just one more shot.

"We shouldn't do this," he said, though his words held no real conviction. She could feel the breaths of his enunciation as their mouths hovered so close that the space between them was negligible. "We shouldn't..."

Then everything that was prudent and wise was lost in the way their lips melded together, firm and desperate. There was a rush of satisfaction, and Astrid hoped he felt it too; because that kiss, mutually sought, was incomparable to any other sense fulfillment she had ever known.

She cupped his face in her hands, feeling the warmth of his skin in her palms like a promise that he would stay; that he would not recoil again.

He was kissing her back, slow and uncertain. With a conceited thrill, she realized no one else knew his lips as she did; and with a wave of shame, she knew he could not claim the same exclusivity. So, she kissed him harder, more fervent; crushing their mouths together in the hopes it would erase any traces of Stefnir that lingered there. She reveled in giving Hiccup what should've been his.

At that point, with boundaries crossed, it did not matter what was _supposed _to have been. After all, their people were never meant to live peacefully with dragons. Astrid was not supposed to have noticed the scrawny, fumbling boy who was never going to amount to anything great. She was always supposed to marry Stefnir, that had been decided long ago; and she should have never found a distraction from that duty to her family. But Hiccup had changed the course of everything that ought to have been, setting a new trajectory that wrested her violently from the "perfect plan" that had been laid out for her life. Just like that, he was at the center of everything; and what was supposed to be was smothered to death by what actually was: his lips moving against her own.

She captured his bottom lip when breathing was imminent, drawing back with a parting suckle that she never felt Stefnir deserved. But he probably did. He was her intended, and he deserved it in a way Hiccup did not. Yet, there she stood miles from home, wrapped up in the attentions of a man she could never be with like it was the last time. It very well could be the last time, if one of them managed to come to their senses.

It really _needed _to be the last time for their sanity, for their dignity, and for the truth that it was never going to go anywhere but face-first into the dirt...

But, Odin help her, Astrid would never let it be the last time.

Hiccup gazed her with a conflicted desire, breathing a little too heavily to be truly alright with any of it. His hand was still insecure and conspicuous on her back. He held her close to him, but not close enough.

She inched forward, feeling the rapturous guilt as her body fit against his with a flawlessness that insulted her scruples. Hiccup shuddered-or maybe she did-and his arms came around her in the death throes of his reservations. Stefnir, who had been an underlying irritation grating on Astrid's conscience, faded into a distant second thought that was nearly imperceptible as Hiccup initiated another kiss, more assured.

Her hand ran through his hair; soft russet between her fingers that were no longer encumbered by false pretenses. Her other hand returned to his chest, gripping his tunic because it was the least dangerous thing she could do.

Somehow, she thought she could take a breath with their lips connected; but Hiccup persisted, and t everything became open-mouthed and ragged gasps. Suddenly, they had bounded into new territory, hot and urgent, and further than she had ever gone with Stefnir. The kiss was terrifying and exciting, wonderful and wrong. She leaned into Hiccup, coming up on her toes just as his knees buckled. They fell, and Hiccup caught himself. He was half-sitting, half-lying, propped up by one hand as Astrid landed in his lap, straddling him on the damp, black sand; ridiculous and compromising, perfectly shameless as if they had coordinated it.

And they did not stop. Not even a moment's pause to collect themselves.

She yanked on his clothes, dragging him up to meet her by fistfuls of green tunic. Two years of trying to behave, of trying to move on like a couple of mature adults, was wasted effort for anything other than inevitable poor choices. They had been contents under pressure, fated to explode in either screaming or colliding passions; or, as it so happened, both.

Their kiss was clumsy and aggressive, too much grazing of teeth. Then Astrid found his tongue, coaxing it with a timid flick of her own. She melted into him when he responded in kind. A whimper escaped her and Hiccup sat up straighter, tightening his grip on her arms. His hold was possessive and it made her dizzy. She battled him, brushing her tongue against his in a bid for dominance; because they were equally matched in foolish desire and brazen stupidity.

His hands traveled down her arms with deliberate pressure, truly feeling her, _learning _her. Astrid was too aware of his fingers, his blacksmith's callouses. Her arms were innocent expanses of flesh, but every bit of skin Hiccup touched became an erogenous zone. And they were heat: two blazing entities suffocating as they burned up all the air between them.

She was stroking him, rubbing over his chest like she was trying to ignite more sparks; stir up more friction. There would be nothing left of those pitiful, anguished teens. What would emerge from their ashes was anyone's guess. Hopefully something beautiful, but likely something more tragic. The present was all Astrid could think about; not tomorrow or the next day. Not the regret, nor the mortification; not the queasiness in her stomach whenever she looked at Hiccup as she hung on Stefnir like the dutiful bride. She could not bear to think about the humiliation to come; and though Hiccup was the only other person who would know, it was disconcerting _because_ it was him. He mattered; what he thought, what he felt. Would he blame her? Hate her? Resent her for the heavier load they now had to carry?

With much difficulty, Astrid wrenched her mouth from his. She stared into his eyes, so dark in the silver light of the evening. They both were breathless.

"Hiccup," she murmured, swollen lips brushing his cheek, "I shouldn't have...I'm sorry." Because an apology was in order, though she could not pinpoint one thing. She was sorry for all of it. Yes, a little remorse was called for as she ground her hips down into his lap.

"This is wrong," he insisted, grasping her waist as her body rolled beneath his hands.

"I know, I _know_." She tilted her head back with a frustrated, hungry moan.

Hiccup closed his eyes, leaning forward until his head rested just beneath her collar bone and his face was flirting with the valley of her breasts. She held him there, embracing him and gazing up at the unblinking, vouyeristic stars. He held onto her hips, mindful of the spikes of her skirt. She moved over him slowly, dragging woolen leggings over leather.

"We have to stop this," he rasped, contrary to the way he pulled her closer. He mapped her contours as she rocked their lower bodies together.

Astrid wanted the fabric barriers gone. She wanted to feel the warmth of his fingertips gliding over her thighs; and his breath tickling her breasts. But that would kill them. If nothing else, that surely would.

"Hiccup, I don't want to stop," she admitted.

He had to do. As unfair as it was, another burden was on him. Astrid could not be the one to end their tryst; to choose to submit to her conscience and be faithful to Stefnir. She had indulged too much; drank too greedily from the forbidden. Hiccup had to be the responsible one that pushed her away, rebuffing her advances for the sake of their mutual sanity.

He glanced up at her, and she captured his lips. There was no way she could not kiss him. She was not strong enough to resist him anymore.

"This won't go anywhere," he murmured between fervent pecks. "This...we're only doing more damage."

Astrid knew that, but she could not bring herself care as much as she should. Astrid moaned against his thin lips, absorbing every last bit of pleasure from their indiscretion.

"Tell me to stop," she pleaded. "Hiccup, _you_ have to tell me-"

A firm, lengthy kiss interrupted her. It was blissfully scalding.

"I won't," he told her. "I can't."

"Why?" Their mouths ghosted over one another, teasing that time.

"Because I can't seem to fall out of love with you, either." He answered. Astrid sighed, tasting and savoring the words in the breath they shared. "Because I'm an idiot."

"Hiccup..."

She groped at his belt, absent of any higher thought as the buckle clinked enticingly...

Then Toothless warbled, and it snapped Hiccup out of his trance. His brow knitted together over half-lidded eyes, and Astrid felt his caresses falter. His eyes flickered down to her staggering attempt to undress him; and there was the shameful rush she had been waiting for: the inevitable result of throwing prudence to the wind.

"You have to get off of me," Hiccup said urgently, common sense returning with a vengeance. "Y-you have to-"

Astrid scrambled off his lap, covering her mouth to stifle the sudden urge to vomit. She could not look at him, staring out at the black waves glimmering so benign in the moonlight. Their last kiss was still tingling on her lips, beseeching for more. She despise herself for it. What had transpired between them, so desperate and brief, was over. All that remained in the aftermath was embarrassment and the threat of bitterness to follow.

"I'm sorry." Her throat was dry and her voice, hoarse. She swallowed hard and strode toward Stormfly, eyes downcast.

She was going to flee that beach and hurry home to Stefnir. She would never go near Hiccup again; she would spend the rest of her life as the loyal wife Stefnir expected her to be. No more blurred lines, overstepped boundaries, or challenges to convention.

"Stop," Hiccup said gently, and it was a request. Long fingers encircled her wrist with the sweetest grip. "Wait."

Astrid sighed heavily, blinking tears of frustration from her eyes. Still, she didn't cry. Turning back to him, she willed herself to hold it together; to retain some self-respect. She was the instigator, and she knew it. _He_ knew it. She had propelled them into calamity, trying to step back when it became too real, making an already horrendous situation impossibly more complicated because she was selfish.

"I'll go back to Stefnir," she declared. "I'll leave you alone. I won't speak of this to anyone. You can just-"

Hiccup kissed her, and she wanted to disappear, closing her eyes and grimacing. He had shook his head while she spoke, then boldly claimed her lips to add further insult to reason; and it was a deplorable thing, because she could only relish in it in spite of her reservations.

"I don't want that and neither do you," he replied, sounding annoyed. Most likely fed up with her hurtful vacillating. Astrid did not know where he had found the sudden confidence to speak for them both, even if it was true.

She stepped back from him into the open arms of her renewed sense of responsibility, because it was safe there. Everything was predictable, and everything was simpler.

She mounted Stormfly, tucking her hair behind her ears with trembling fingers.

"I'm...I'm going back to Berk. No one knows I left. They'll be looking for me." She blurted out before Hiccup could argue.

She was going back to Stefnir and her parents; back to the Astrid that did as she was told: the girl that everyone could depend on. Her word was her bond and she did not give in to unrealistic fantasies.

"Whatever this is, Astrid, I'm not leaving it here."

A shrinking, but audacious part of her was glad was he so determined. That whisper of temptation wanted her to stay on Dragon Island and find out just how far they were willing to go, where they would stop, and if they could truly dissolve two years of a sullied relationship.

But she nudged her dragon with her heels, retreating into the night sky and leaving Hiccup where he stood.

* * *

Stormfly returned to her stall with very little guidance. She flapped her wings and cocked her head to the side, considering Astrid with curious yellow eyes. Astrid tried not to look at Stormfly. Her dragon did not need more reason to fret from a great emotional upheaval beyond her capacity to understand.

"Good girl. Thanks for the flight," Astrid cooed, stroking Stormfly's snout before leaving the stables.

If she was lucky, she could make it to her bedroom without any further interactions. She needed to collect her thoughts and sort through all of the indecent rubbish without Stefnir or her parents adding to the pile.

But that would have been too easy; the kind of good fortune of someone actually deserving of it.

Footsteps and the eager jangling of armor captured her attention like a skittish rabbit in a snare trap. She turned around with swelling dread, recognizing that particular melody of rattling metal. She knew well the towering, chiseled frame before her eyes even met his face.

Stefnir hurried toward her, alight at the sight of her. He was impressive in the interplay bright moonlight and shadow, flashing off his armor and defining his wealth of muscle. She wiped her sweaty palms on her tunic with a wavering smile she hoped was convincing in the darkness.

"You weren't at dinner," he said, quirking an eyebrow. "I was beginning to wonder where you'd gone."

He hugged her and she tensed, fingers curled and rigid above his shoulders. Her hands trembled and she settled for patting his back awkwardly, uncertain what feelings might be betrayed while holding him.

"I was out flying," she replied, wiggling out of his embrace without being too conspicuous. A tender hand on his chest was affectionate enough, but she withdrew it almost instantly. Her expression was placid though her insides squirmed.

"Where to?" he asked, rubbing her arms like he always did-which suddenly felt like a foreign and unwelcome contact. She wished he did not want to feel her skin. His hands were too large and assertive in a way she previously had not noticed.

"Just...around. I don't know. I wasn't paying attention." She was trying not to sound too perturbed, trying not to let her eyes dart around too much. His touch repulsed her more than it should. For the first time, she had another caress to compare it with.

"You should tell me before you just up and leave like that," Stefnir told her with a small, exasperated smile much too similar to a parent's mild criticism.

"I didn't realize I needed an escort."

She was a dragon rider, damn it. She'd been pioneering dangerous stunts on her Nadder before Stefnir had even named his Monstrous Nightmare. After two years, she expected more Independence, but he only seemed to be gradually tightening the reins.

"As your future husband, don't you think I deserve to know these things?" He tugged at the end of her braid, childishly emphatic, as if she could not understand his meaning otherwise.

"Maybe if you believe I'm doing something duplicitous?"

Stefnir chuckled, gripping her waist and pulling her flush against him. She bristled everywhere their bodies met as he leaned in. "I know you better than that."

He kissed her and she screwed her eyes shut, lips tightly pursed beneath his. Her mouth felt besieged, tender and abused from earlier. She wanted to shove him away, no longer accepting of those thicker, rougher lips-but she had no excuse beside the truth. And that was hardly an option.

His hand snaked beneath her braid to the nape of her neck, unwittingly holding her against her will as she stood, frozen in place by her family's inescapable commitment to his, sacrificing her own desires for reputation and honor.

It was the Hofferson way.

As Stefnir held her, a dragon flew overhead, camouflaged against the black of night like only one species she knew of. And it was all she could do to keep from screaming.


	6. Chapter 6

"So, you told him?" Stefnir asked, studying Astrid over folded hands.

She frowned at him, a bite of porridge hovering at her lips. As she straightened up, she returned the spoonful to her bowl with a clatter.

"Yes, I told him." She kept her eyes on her future husband, finding it only slightly less painful that shifting her gaze to the tall, slim figure a couple of tables away. "Why does _he _matter to you, specifically?"

Stefnir rubbed his chin, casting a conspicuous glance over her shoulder, in Hiccup's direction. Astrid's skin prickled to think Hiccup could be staring back at them; deep, green eyes could be roaming over her with the same torturous gentleness of warm blacksmith's hands: a caress that had been haunting her from the moment she had left the Dragon Island. She had not slept very well, tossing and turning and wrestling with the urge to leave the comfort of her bed for another's.

She wrestled with titillating memories, only hours old: touch, and leather, and tongue. As Stefnir glanced back at her, she stuffed her spoon in her mouth to wipe away the daydream that might hang on her face.

"I don't like the way he looks at you," Stefnir said.

Astrid gaped at him, spoon wobbling between her lips. Her appetite evaporated. She returned her spoon to her bowl and pushed both away. Her eyes narrowed. "_How_ does he look at me?"

"Like you owe him something."

She scoffed. "I don't owe him anything."

"That's right, you don't." Stefnir reached across the table for her, his fingertips brushing over her knuckles. She curled her hand into a tight fist and withdrew it. He recoiled. "Astrid, what's—?"

"I have to meet my mother," she blurted out, springing to her feet. "Wedding stuff," she added in the same breath.

Stefnir leaned back, considering her with a small nod. His expression was searching in a way that made her tense, so she flashed him a loving smile that was as empty as her stomach.

She laid her hands against the table top, bending far over to place a kiss on his lips, trying to inject some warmth into it in spite of her trembling fingers and the nauseous roll of her stomach. His mouth was the only one she had known for two years, memorizing its taste, its texture, and its width; but there was an internal protestation: a shriek of wrongness to the kiss that she could not ignore.

"Mmn," Stefnir hummed, smirking as she pulled back.

Astrid tried to reciprocate; she was confident she only looked pained. She tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears and said, "I'll meet up with you later."

He appeared satisfied; and she made a quick escape, striding toward the doors as fast as she could without appearing to flee. She was not a routine liar, so she decided to head for home for some small sliver of honesty. Still, listening to her mother fuss over wedding details was not a particularly interesting use of her time, but it was less of a hassle than later feeding Stefnir another excuse why she never did spend the afternoon doing as she said she would.

She pried open one of the ornate doors, glancing back over her shoulder, not the least bit surprised to see Stefnir watching her leave. His gaze always followed her, and it felt like a short tether some days. She had come to suspect his scrutiny; but a warm, vibrant green flashed in her direction from two tables over. The moment was over in an instant. Hiccup was engaged in deep conversation with Fishlegs, laughing like she had not seen him do for quite some time. But she was _sure_ those eyes had rested on her, for even a fraction of a second.

Her heart stumbled for a beat and she whipped around to drive the wedge between the sagacious and reckless halves of herself, both easily tempted. Those two warring bits of conscience were melding dangerously in the Great Hall, filling her head with terrible thoughts of sliding into Hiccup's lap while her Stefnir watched with burning jealousy. Her hands roaming over Hiccup's clothes, stroking the lissome muscle underneath, would undoubtedly incite Stefnir to violence. No absolution could be found while flaunting infidelity, nor would it free her from her arranged marriage. If anything, Stefnir would only tighten his grip, lash out at Hiccup, and it would be disastrous for everyone.

She hurried down the stone steps, trying to bury everything for a time. She had to focus on acting thrilled at the prospect of marriage; of being the giddy bride people would expect her to be. She would tell her mother they should officially announce the engagement to the village, then start planning the whole thing like the anticipation had her fit to burst.

That would not be completely false; she _was_ fit to burst—with misery.

The dreary morning clouds reflected her mood with their stark grey shades, heavy like her mind. She sighed up at them in confession of everything, wishing she could pour out her soul like the impending deluge. Thunder rolled like was admonishing for all of her misdeeds. At the first cool raindrops, her pace quickened. She jogged home, taking a steadying breath as she stepped inside.

Her mother smiled, glancing up from her sewing. Rich blue material draped across her lap in sumptuous waves. Undoubtedly expensive, even for their family, Astrid had an inkling it was meant for her.

"This is nice," she said, rubbing the delicate fabric between her fingers, appreciating the fine threads and their vibrancy. The quality was reminiscent of Haddock family clothing—they had the best of everything. "Where'd it come from?"

"It was a gift from the Svensons, for you. For the wedding. They told me you and Stefnir were ready to move things along, and I wanted to get an early start on your gown. Best not to rush it," her mother answered, smoothing out the luxurious fibers almost covetously. "So generous of them..."

"Yeah, no kidding. I'm surprised Fura didn't keep it for herself. She usually takes a bit of her husband's best wares before the rest of us can glimpse them," Astrid muttered, sauntering into the kitchen space. She rummaged around in baskets for something to soothe her rumbling stomach, settling on an apple.

"She probably just thought you would look better in it, dear. I happen to agree."

"Mm. Better to display me in, you mean." Astrid leaned back against the dinner table, watching her mother stitch tiny beads along the silk trim. "Can't have anything 'Svenson' that's less than perfectly polished, right?"

"That's a very cynical attitude to have about your in-laws. They are to be family, Astrid."

"All the more right I have to complain."

Her mother's arms fell to her lap. He brow was a heavy, humorless line. "I thought things were going well between you and Stefnir. Don't tell me you'vee done something to chase him off like you used to threaten to do?"

Astrid snorted, taking a bite of her apple. She swallowed and answered, "I couldn't shake him if I tried. When he wants something, he's beastly about it. No, I've got a firm hold on him, mom. You needn't worry about that. I've done my part, as promised."

"Oh, don't act like it's the end of your life. Without arranged marriages, you never would've come into this world. Good things can come of such...unions."

"Like wealth. Pretty things?" Astrid shook a corner of the blue fabric for emphasis. She took another bite of her apple.

"And love...if you'd stop being so damn obstinate!" Her mother chided. Astrid rolled her eyes and paced the room. He mother continued, "Stefnir cares fer you, but you're so determined to sulk behind these closed doors. In marriage, you can be happy, or you can be unhappy. It's your choice; but either way, this wedding will happen. The agreement has long been set. You know that. It's a smart match. Both our clans will only prosper. Isn't that worth something to you?"

"Of course, it's worth something! I'm going along with it, aren't I?" Astrid snapped. She threw her arm out in the general direction of the Great Hall. "I've got them all convinced! I think I've done a damn good job."

Her mother nodded, pulling her needle through the precious material. "You have. You'll be set fer life. There's nothing a parent wants more than to ensure their children are taken care of."

Astrid stared at the floor, clenching her teeth. The rain pelted the house in a steady rhythm, muffling the thoughts she worried her mother might hear otherwise. She was urious and resentful, wanting to screech her displeasure at the top of her lungs until someone truly _heard_ her. Every attempt to protest her marriage had hit the same wall. She suddenly hated that beautiful fabric her mother sewed as if it were a banner of her entrapment; as if it were the thing keeping her parents staunchly against her freedom.

"What if there was another clan out there more suitable than the Svensons?" she asked, turning her apple slowly in her hand. She brought it to her mouth, studying her mother carefully as her teeth sank through the skin.

Her mother scoffed, shaking her head. She did not look up as she secured beads with fastidious little jerks of her needle. "Oh? Which clan did you have in mind? The Jorgensons? As I recall, Snotlout repulses you now. You should be thanking us for sparing you, in that case. Spitelout came 'round asking about you and Snotlout years ago."

Astrid suppressed the ill shiver as the thought of having Snotlout as her intended. She inhaled sharply, not daring to meet her mother's gaze as she mumbled, "If it's security you want for me, I mean…there's the Haddocks…"

She glanced up, holding her breath, only to lock eyes with her mother's piercing scrutiny.

"I thought we nipped that in the bud, dear." The endearment was meant to cut the acidity of her tone, but accusation still dripped from every syllable.

Astrid felt her face burn, there was no way to play it off casually, but that would not stop her. from trying "I'm—yes. I didn't mean anything by it, I was just saying the chief might—"

Her mother flipped her hair back with a toss of her head in a manner Astrid knew all too well: it was, apparently, one of those inheritable traits. "The chief will not dissolve a standing, _binding _contract between families," she explained. "Stoick will not get involved just because you are uncomfortable with the idea of marriage, unless the Svensons feel wronged somehow, or they cross us—neither which I foresee happening."

"Fine. What about divorce?"

"_Astrid!_" Her mother's eyes widened and her nostrils flared. The muscles in her neck tightened at the very hint of scandal.

"It's the best situation!" Astrid held up her hands, placating. "I can marry Stefnir and, that way, no one's word is broken. Then, if I go on to marry Hiccup—"

"You wouldn't." There was such a finality in her mother's tone that Astrid was taken back, lips parting in silent bewilderment. "His first marriage must be to a maiden to ensure the legitimacy of an heir. He can't have someone that's been touched by another man—especially not right after you divorced Stefnir, for the sake of the gods, child! You _will_ marry Stefnir, and Hiccup will marry someone outside of Berk. It will be a political marriage, most like, just as his father before him, and so on."

Astrid's chest heaved at the very thought of Hiccup pledging his devotion to another woman. He would be kind to her, of course, compelled to make her feel welcome among his people. His warmth would undoubtedly earn her affections in a short time; and the mental image of him wrapped around a different set of curves was enough to make Astrid's stomach churn with revulsion. She had a seething hatred for this person—nameless, faceless, and just an idea that would someday be realized.

"But suppose he didn't love—?"

"Love isn't a necessity, but stability is fundamental. If you happen to fall in love along the way, then you're one of the lucky ones." Her mother went back to her sewing, sharp eyes flickering up for just a moment. "I am surprised _you _wish to fixate on such things."

"I don't. I…it was just speculating." Astrid took a seat at the table, swiveling on the bench to face her mother. "I guess we can make the engagement official tonight at dinner—announce it, I mean."

"Think you're ready for that?" her mother wondered, but it was not as much a genuine question as a demand—a call to get her mind right on the issue.

Astrid brought her elbows to her thighs, bending in the defeat, burying her face in one hand. Her nails dug into the apple's skin in the other.

"Do I really have a choice?" she mumbled.

"Of course you do, but you might as well make the right one. It will make this whole experience less painful."

Astrid laughed, hollow and beaten down. "Somehow, mom, I don't think that's possible."

"Then at least distract yourself. You'll need a headdress fer the wedding. Start thinking about the flowers you want in it."

"Because that's what _really_ matters…" Astrid closed her eyes and raked fingers through her bangs, exhaling every last particle of hope she had left.

Her mother stated, "Well, until you say those vows, it had better be."

* * *

Hiccup ducked as a hammer was swung haphazardly at his head. Years of dodging irritated blows from his mentor had made him plenty agile. Gobber sneered, hobbling back to his anvil to shape malleable iron glowing a fiery orange.

"I should take you head off for abandoning the forge!" he snapped, pounding away at the heated metal. His false tooth was jutted out of his bottom lip in annoyance. He gripped his pair tongs, sparks flying as if they were manifestations of his ire. It used to be intimidating, back when Hiccup was only ten and first sent to study blacksmithing with the colossal man. " He flourished his hammer-prosthesis. "Do we need to review the basics again?"

"Well, if you insist on the refresher. _I'm_ good, though," Hiccup teased, removing his apron from the wall.

Gobber's face fell, glaring at him from under bushy eyebrows. "You can be such a shit, do you know that?"

Hiccup gave a small shrug, tying his apron behind his back with nimble fingers. "A matter of opinion."

"A matter of _fact!_"Gobber retorted. "Now get on that crucible. I need two dozen studs."

"I completed all of the orders you had set for me to finish yesterday. Really, I make your job substantially easier." Hiccup slipped another set of tongs from the wall.

"Oh, aye—but you make my headaches substantially worse."

Hiccup divided up the appropriate amount of ore to be placed in the crucible. "Eh, you take the good with the bad, right?"

The older Viking grunted, returning to his work. The sound of his hammer tempering the hot ore rang through in the shop, overpowering the howling wind and incessant rainfall. Close bolts of lightning flashed out on the sea, and cracks of thunder reverberated through the ground—but inclement weather was not a sufficient excuse for shirking work for the day. Hiccup secured the crucible with his long and heavy tongs, moving it into the forge and compressing the bellows to rouse the flames into a frenzy.

"Where did you run off to, anyway?" Gobber asked between strikes of his hammer and rolls of thunder.

"Why does it matter?" Hiccup replied, bristling at the rather honest question. Images assaulted him of black sand and soft hair, luminous in silver moonbeams.

"I think I deserve to know what's more pressing than my smithy!"

Hiccup wished the roaring fire was solely to blame for fine sheen of perspiration breaking out along his upper lip and hairline. If he closed his eyes and reflected on things, he could still recall the weight of Astrid in his lap, feel the tantalizing pressure of her hips grinding against his. "I went to Dragon Island."

Gobber was paused. "Why would you—?"

"Never mind why!" Hiccup's ears were burning and he hoped the light of the forge masked it.

He could not admit he had fled the village to brood over unrequited love. Gobber would undoubtedly think him pathetic for it. A Viking would not admit to such things. His mentor would only care to hear the more ribald details: the dance of tongues and passionate rubbing, especially if any awkward and uncomfortable feelings arose in the process. Acceptable details included eager groping and inconvenient erections, bawdy things worth laughing about.

That was, of course, disregarding the fact that what happened on Dragon Island should never have occurred in the first place. In all actuality, Gobber would have a wealth of criticism and advice Hiccup had no need for. Astrid's lips had been a remedy, a cure for the anguish coursing through him like a poison, killing him with an inescapable despondency. She brought him back from that pit and obliterated all of his self-control. His initial reluctance to kiss her had been the dying breath of his common sense. Then everything had been desire without thought, touching on instinct. That long-suppressed need for her had driven the conservative exploration of her body, and every movement of his lips against hers.

He did not know what was to become of them. Practicality had returned and their affections had come to a jarring stop. They had parted suddenly and without resolution. Astrid had not spoken to him since, but he a fundamental change. The current of their strained relationship had shifted, though Hiccup could not imagine where they would wash up. There was only one thing of which he was truly certain: _no one else could know._ The fallout would be catastrophic for the both of them; a firestorm of consequence and shame, reputations irreparably tarnished. Hiccup cared less about such things for himself. He was no stranger to rebuke and scorn, even if it had been a while since he deserved any; but Astrid was a different kind of soul entirely, with an insatiable drive to please those that counted, along with her severe perfectionism. He did not wish to throw her into scandal, least of all before they _were_ anything scandalous to be flustered about.

"You can't be running off whenever you feel like it!" Gobber scolded, plunging the blazing iron into a bucket of water. It hissed in a way that matched the older man's scowl, as if everything in the forge was a reflection of his mood. "The Selection is around the corner, and we'll be drowning in orders for the kiddie saddles."

"I know that," Hiccup replied.

How could he not? He had been present at every Selection since its inception—granted, there had only been two of them, but it mattered. He would attend even if his father did not insist on it. He almost had to, in case any of the ten-year-olds needed guidance. Any members of the academy could do the job, but he did not think it egotistical to say, when it came to forging lasting bonds with dragons, he was the expert.

He compressed the bellows again, the ore melting to the proper consistency.

"You'll be attending the ceremony with your father, no doubt." Gobber removed his work piece from the water and limped over to the forge. "Which'll leave me on my own here for a couple of days, so don't think I won't run you ragged before then." He returned the metal to the flames.

Hiccup's lips twitched into a sardonic half-smirk.

"Please do. I'd rather be in here than out among everyone else. If it's not talk about the Selection, it's talk of upcoming marriage season." He grasped the end of his tongs, walking the crucible to the workbench where the molds were set, taking deliberate steps.

"_Ach,_ don't I know it? I've heard whispers this morning that one's to be set for the end of the month, already. A little early, if you ask me. Who would be _that_ eager to—?"

There was a moment's hesitation, where Hiccup could not seem to form the words. Then he interjected, "Stefnir and Astrid."

Such a palpable uneasiness settled in the air that he did not need to look at Gobber to feel it. Hiccup could hear the older Viking clear his throat; and there was a rattling of metal in the forge as the man shifted his tongs around idly.

Hiccup could imagine the pitying glance as Gobber replied, "Oh. I, eh…I see."

But Hiccup could not care less than the older man saw him as a wounded animal. There would be time to lament the wedding. All of it was still a distant glimmer, drawing ever closer; though it was still too far off to truly appreciate its scope. Black clouds of a new storm billowed on the horizon while Hiccup was determined to enjoy the temporary rays of sunlight. He and Astrid were going to have to face it—what they were, what they could never be, and what they had so foolishly done. But, he would not take for granted that she wanted him. Briefly, she could have him. She was his until Stefnir was her husband; and until Hiccup could process the futility of a relationship with Astrid, he would enjoy curling up with her in the hole they dug for themselves. For so long, he had ached for her. False apathy was an insidious form of self-destruction, and propriety was not enough to dissuade him from trying to put some pieces of himself back into place. He was so thankful that, for a moment, he was no longer hurting. Not like he used to, and not anything like he eventually would experience.

So, as he poured liquid iron into molds, it was not quite as insincere as it once was when he said, "Good for them."

* * *

Astrid felt uncomfortable in her own skin, hanging on Stefnir's arm and smiling amid all of the claps and back-slapping. She looked so thrilled at the announcement of their engagement, but it was not her. She had been rehearsing. Always rehearsing. The moment was something akin to an out-of-body experience. She played a character: the girl she had tried to believe she was for the past two years. She had been so convincing to everyone else that _she _had almost bought into the lie.

Dragon Island had awoken her from her trance. The little moments stolen with Hiccup leading up to it, though he had never reciprocated, had kept her somewhat in touch with her real self. She had not given into the illusion completely because Hiccup was her anchor to reality, as harsh as the truth of "them" had been, and was.

She wondered how long she would last in marriage. How long would she maintain her spirit before she was crushed under the farce; before she gave up and stopped fighting altogether; before all the passion in her fizzled out?

She gladly accepted a congratulatory tankard of ale when it was offered. As the drink sloshed over her tongue, it was the only thing about the entire scene that felt normal. Stefnir kept pulling her close, kissing her head, and she had to will herself not to tense up.

Stefnir quickly led her elsewhere. She was no longer an integral part of the academy's social circle and so he wanted her to pour more energy into his friends and the loose bonds she had with them. Lying was easier when she was not emotionally invested. It was a great deal harder to act pleased when Stefnir finally paraded her in front of the chief. She felt transparent under the examination of Stoick the Vast. She wondered if Hiccup often felt the same; and she flashed her chief a genial smile before drowning it in her mug of ale.

"Congratulations, to the both of you," Stoick said, and it was such a genuine air that Astrid's guilt intensified about tenfold.

She wanted to blurt out apology, seek forgiveness for the undue pain she had caused his son. She wanted to beg for him to dissolve the arrangement between her clan and the Svensons; but Stoick was lawful and fair. He would not do such a thing unless it was warranted by more than personal bias alone. Her mother had made that clear enough.

"I hope it's not asking too much to do it so soon after the Selection," Stefnir said.

"To go from the Selection to a wedding between two prominent clans means prolonged festivities and high spirits for our people. I wouldn't say I'm too displeased," Stoick replied. "We do need to discuss the building of your new home, however. I suggest you speak with Thorston when you have the chance."

"I'll get right on that."

The two men began discussing matters in which Astrid had little interest: talk of construction and the Svenson family merchant trade. As Stefnir droned on, she scanned the Great Hall for the only person she wanted to see.

Hiccup had been absent from the chattering throngs of well-wishers surrounding her, but she spotted him among the other academy members in the back of the hall, reemerging from wherever he hid when she and Stefnir had come around their table. She expected him to keep his back turned, speaking to the twins about whatever they found pressing. When he glanced over his shoulder, their eyes met with disarming suddenness.

Heat surged through her and her stomach fluttered. She felt an urgency to flee her future husband for the evening; to escape the crowded Great Hall for somewhere quieter, somewhere intimate. Sneaking off would be worth it just to be alone with her thoughts, but she fully intended to have company.

With the tiniest jerk of her head toward the doors, she hoped Hiccup got the message.

"I think I'm going to take Stormfly out," Astrid said, gazing up at Stefnir with as much innocence as she could muster.

Stefnir stopped mid-sentence, quirking an eyebrow as he turned from the chief to consider her. "This late? In the middle of all this?" he gestured around at the rest of the room, still buzzing with anticipation of their impending nuptials.

"It's been storming all day. She's been cooped up in the stables. I think she needs to stretch her wings."

Stefnir did not look convinced. "We should both stay here," he insisted, "for everyone."

"Getting married doesn't mean my dragon comes second." She shrugged off his arm.

"Ah, let her go," Stoick interjected, and Astrid could have hugged him. "This isn't the end of the celebration."

Stefnir glanced between the chief and Astrid, and she could see him struggling for a suitable rebuttal. He leaned in to kiss her when he fell short, and she quickly raised her mug, tipping back the last drops of her ale. He settled for her cheek, frowning.

"I pray, my love, do not weep for me," she told him, gently grasping his chin between her thumb and index finger. Stoick chuckled softly but Stefnir only furrowed his brow, missing the poetic reference. She had forgotten her intended was not the most well-read man on Berk.

She smiled then turned on her heel, weaving through the sea of Vikings toward the doors. She cast a sidelong glance toward the other academy members, face falling when she saw Hiccup standing there, still talking with the Twins, flanked by his dragon. Perhaps he had not picked up on her little cue? She felt a welling disappointment, but Stormfly was plenty worth the escape.

She set her empty mug on a table as she fled the Great Hall, finding comfort in the silence of the village. There was no clanging metal from the forge, and only the cry of Terrible Terrors disrupted the still and quiet of Berk at night. The lingering smell of rain permeated everything, and puddles reflected the stars above, almost to suggest the ground had opened up to reveal another expanse of sky beneath her. No one would bother her as she jogged toward the stables, mud squelching underfoot, for nearly everyone was drinking themselves into an evening stupor.

The stifling heat of hundreds of dragons nestled in their stalls was strangely welcoming. Though the air was thick and humid with their collective body heat, Astrid could breathe much easier than she had in the past couple of hours. A few dragons growled she passed, and it might have been intimidating to any non-Hooligans. Astrid simply ran her hand over their various snouts, earning appreciative rumblings as she ambled over to Stormfly's stall.

Her Nadder perked up at the sight of her, leaning into Astrid's touch.

"Hey girl! Want to fly?" Astrid stroked along her dragon's jaw, grinning at the way Stormfly luxuriated in it. "I'll take that as a yes."

She sidled into the stall, taking her saddle down from it peg. It was a beautiful work of leather from a much happier time, older than any of the strife she felt. Stormfly held still as Astrid fitted it to her, and thoughts of Stefnir intruded in on the moment:his possessiveness, suspicion, and the way he had been puzzled by a line of well-known poetry to those bothering to learn such things. Stefnir did not seem to have much interest in the arts, but there was a prominenta side of Astrid that found beauty and meaning in life beyond wealth, influence, and muscle.

She sighed, patting her dragon. "How am I going to make this marriage work, Stormfly?" The Nadder squawked and Astrid smirked, shaking her head. "I wish I understood you. Maybe Hiccup could translate?" Her heart felt heavy as she led Stormfly out of her stall, wishing she had been clearer with her intentions, then Hiccup might be there with her.

A dismal thought swirled in her mind that, maybe, he had come to his senses and had the foresight to end whatever emotional affair they had started before it got out of hand. That was the right thing to to, the responsible thing.

Stanzas came together in her mind, giving voice to her dull mood. She would have to enjoy more intellectual pursuits in private, it seemed, for she was to be bound to a man would could not relate.

"Battle worn and weary, I welcome unrelenting night," she said, reciting her favorite poem as she readjusted and tightened the saddle. "I pray, my love, do not weep for me, for no longer must I fight. No sails seen in the distance to herald my return. I join the fallen in Valhalla, as my body now must burn. I lay upon this pyre, and the stars glint overhead—"

"I pray, waste not the time to search for me, for verily I am dead."

Astrid nearly yelped, and she whipped around to meet the curious gaze of a Night Fury. Stormfly was thrilled, bounding over to greet Toothless with all of her enthusiasm. But Astrid was unconcerned with the dragons. Hiccup was there, as imprudent, shortsighted, bullheaded as she was. The smallest tether of dignity kept her from launching herself into his arms with relief.

She was not alone in her impetuousness.

"I was feeling smothered back there," she told him, blood rushing louder in her ears with every step he took, shrinking the space between them. "I thought taking our dragons out might be nice. After that storm, I bet they're just dying to…"

Hiccup just smiled and she realized he did not care about the reason. He did not need an explanation. There was no doubting her word or following it up with a series of probing questions. She had wanted to see him and he had complied, and there was no need to defend herself to him.

"Truth is, I was beginning to think you decided to sensible," she said, grinning as she found his smile infectious.

Hiccup smirked, glancing down at the floor as he replied, "Common sense and I are not often on good terms." His eyes flickered back to her face as Toothless appeared at his shoulder, nudging his rider with impatience. "Okay, _okay_ bud." Hiccup climbed into his saddle.

Astrid pulled herself up onto Stormfly's back and waited for Hiccup and Toothless to take the lead, but he just gestured out into the night and said, "Milady."

She beamed at him, delighted to hear that endearment again after so long.

They flirted with a rather solid line, whether it was flying side by side on their dragons or just holding friendly conversation; they had definitely stepped a toe over it on Dragon Island. Astrid wanted to cross that last boundary. She knew it was unwise, that their relationship was doomed to spiral downward as soon as it got off the ground. But there was an ease to being with Hiccup, as if the past two years had never happened and they were only continuing where they had left off. She laughed as Toothless cut her off, bit her lip as Stormfly dove toward the shoreline to entice the Night Fury into more daring competition.

The sea rippled as Toothless skimmed along it, cutting the surface with the tip of his wing. The salty air tugged at Astrid's braid, loosening it. Her hair became tangled and briny, but it was invigorating. Though she should have been in the Great Hall with her Stefnir, basking in the glow of her engagement, it could not feel more right than flying with Hiccup. She was getting a taste of what her life needed to be, chasing after that Night Fury without care. All guilt was left behind in the stables.

"Hiccup!" she called over the rushing wind. He twisted in his saddle, gazing back at her. "Race you to the cove!"

Toothless veered sharply and Astrid grinned, urging Stormfly after him. Her dragon's wings beat behind her legs. She could feel her Stormfly's power in her own body. Waves turned into rocky cliffs, which then became fir trees; but all was blurred mass in the darkness. The forests of Berk were long black fingers, reaching up to snag them. Toothless glided low over the trees in defiance, making branches rustle violently. Stormfly would not catch him unless the Night Fury wanted to be caught. Hiccup used to let her win on occasion, but it had been years since there had been an honest race between them. He wanted to win and for once, Astrid was alright with losing. She soared into the cove after him, cheeks hurting from the wind's assault and her prolonged smile. They were both breathless, dismounting their dragons with soft laughter.

"That was amazing," Astrid said, flattening the fly-away strands of her hair. "I needed that."

"I almost forgot what a real race felt like," Hiccup remarked. He did not bother to fight with his own hair.

Then, they were standing too close, and that line was somewhere between them. Astrid could sense it even stronger than the night before. She was thinking straighter, more aware of her close proximity to Hiccup. Dragon Island had been a flurry of pent up frustration finally set loose. Sensation had taken over everything, but the cove was different. Less desperate. She could look at Hiccup—_really_ look at him—and she grasped him by the elbow; an innocuous place to touch, to feel him truly there with her, as solid and real as she was. He reached up and traced her braid with his fingers, cradling the end of it loosely in his palm. He stared at her, and that accursed line was dissolving with her inhibitions.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "I think I should be the one asking _you_ that. I'm not about to marry someone I don't like." He tugged at her braid, similar to Stefnir's habit, but decidedly different: sweeter, with more concern than condescension.

"_Like?_" Astrid scoffed. "I 'like' him just fine. That doesn't get me very far in our relationship, though."

There was a sadness in Hiccup—an aching on his face, on her behalf. "And still, you'll marry him?" he asked, and his concern made her want to kiss him.

"What choice do I have, Hiccup? If I don't marry him, I'm disgracing my family. If I do marry him, I can't divorce him and…"

"Be with me?" he suggested, so calmly that it hardly seemed scandalous at all. "Is that…what you want?" There was something intense about him, deep in his gaze, which made her feel like the center of the universe.

She tossed her head back with a hollow laugh. "I'm beginning to think it hardly matters what I want."

"It matters to me. Until you're his wife, it matters to me and…and afterwards, probably."

"Hiccup, I don't know what I'm doing, here," she confessed, more helpless than she had ever felt. "This. _Us._ I know it's far better than where we were yesterday afternoon before Dragon Island, but...You know as well as I do this is wrong."

"Yes, it is—only because a few people decided we can't be together. It's isn't right or fair—"

"No, but neither is this. To our families. To Stefnir. We don't even know where we're headed. It can't be any place good, but…I don't want to stop it, either."

And so she was still determinedly selfish. Wonderful.

"Then, we won't. For however long we've got, we keep going." He gripped her by the arms and she leaned into him.

"Isn't that just reckless?" she asked, bringing her arms around his neck.

Where had the line run off to? She needed it to know how far she could push things; when it was no longer okay.

"Of course it is, but when has that stopped us?"

Her lips brushed his, hesitating. She felt she at least owed him an apology, like she owed his father, her parents, and the whole Svenson clan. Before lucidity died in the shadow of lust, she wanted him to know she understood the weight of what they were doing, that it was her fault, and that she had dragged him needlessly into it. She did not know which was worse: causing him two years of heartache by pretending she was giddy in love with Stefnir, or putting Hiccup in the position of loving her illicitly. He was the heir to Berk, and he was caught in a disgraceful affair.

She murmured, "I'm…I'm sorry, I—"

His hands dropped to her waist, pulling her flush against him. He was warm and it made her entire body ache for him.

"Don't be," he said. "I'm not."

His complacency would not last. So, Astrid took advantage of it while she could and kissed him, not nearly as fervent as she had been the night before. This kiss was slower, deeper; and strangely, more arousing. They were committed, deep in the muck together.


	7. Chapter 7

All eyes were on Astrid as she strolled through the village carrying out her morning chores. She rounded her shoulders, every movement she made feeling suddenly exaggerated. Most days, she was left to her own devices. No one found much reason to care what she did; or rather, they never _used_ to care. Being the center of attention when dragons were not involved was off-putting, to say the least. Races were one thing, but her participation in the sport had become less common as more domestic responsibilities called her. While she craved recognition with anything competitive, she was not used to chatter following her on day-to-day errands. All of Berk got riled up for weddings, however; and she was to be the focus of the whole tragedy unfolding, smiling as she wept on the inside.

Congratulatory shouts rang from passersby as she fed the family chickens. She raised a hand, acknowledging their kindness, though she wished they would not. Every time she came close to forgetting her dismal fate for one blissful moment, someone saw fit to remind her.

She stood up, closing the chicken coop. In her hands, she held a woven bowl with six brown, speckled eggs. The birds clucked as if they were protesting, fluffing their plume. Their heads jerked from one side to the other, considering Astrid towering over them; and the bowl felt heavy in her hands.

"Sorry ladies," she muttered. "It doesn't seem like there's much that's fair around here anymore."

She turned, leather strips of her skirt whipping heavily around her thighs. Her pauldrons jangled as she trudged through the mud, the ground still slick with the previous day's rainstorm. The moisture was beginning to evaporate as the low sun warmed Midgard. The rays refracted through the vapor to create a haunting mist in the morning light. Terrible Terrors cried from the rooftops, scurrying about while larger dragons glided overhead, carrying their riders off their daily work. Distant hammering echoed over the village as more than one Hooligan erected banners for the coming Selection ceremony.

The event was only a couple years old. Chief Stoick could be counted on to form lasting traditions from an evolving culture. Astrid had never bothered to ask how Hiccup felt about it all, but she suspected he probably had a prominent hand in it. After all, dragons _were_ at the center of the ceremony.

She and Hiccup had spent two hours secluded in the cove the night before, and she had grown giddy-drunk off his lips; she had wrapped herself, warm and comfortable, in his laugh. Side by side, they walked laps around the pond—she had lost count how many times—cramming two years' worth of dating into a short while, almost as if there had been no bitterness, no resentment. _Almost_. They were simply Hiccup and Astrid, as they used to be. A little worn and trampled by a terrible misunderstanding, yes. But still intact in spite of everything.

"It seems we still share a dangerous affinity for the ill-advised," he had said, pulling her close.

"I'm glad some things never change," she had replied, plucking idly at the lacing of his collar.

"Mm, yeah. Conspiring, sneaking off to do the wrong thing. It just seems so 'us', don't you think?"

She smirked, and had pressed her face into the crook of his neck, soothed by the warmth of his skin and thrumming of his pulse in a steady rhythm—not bounding, but relaxed.

"Only because I can't find my common sense. Seems I can't shake whatever attraction I have for your strange, awkward, dragon-crazy self," she told him, closing her eyes. The rise and fall of his chest against hers had been pleasant.

His arms came around her and he kissed the crown of her head, saying, "I'm glad some things never change."

But that was the night before, away from Berk and prying eyes where she could be Hiccup's entire focus; and his alone. Morning had broken, and she was back in the village as Stefnir's intended, supposedly devoted. In her two-year act to convince Stefnir and herself that she actually _could _be happy with the circumstances, everyone had come to believe they were indeed a love-match; that she did not know another man's touch; that it was her future husband who inspired rushes of desire in her. She most certainly did not see flashes of bright green eyes and russet hair.

That was what she had to convince everyone else with such regularity she was exhausted from it—like a single stone beat upon by relentless waves.

For what was to be gained by admitting she did not love Stefnir?

The anger and disappointment of her in-laws?

Nothing would change by coming clean, save for the good rapport she enjoyed with her soon-to-be family. Nothing but more pain and frustration would come from the truth. So, she loved Stefnir. Deeply. That was the only truth that mattered to anybody; and that was the truth she publicly maintained—but it was weighing her down like a stone. She worried she might not have anything left in her to appear overjoyed on her wedding day.

Insincerity was so draining.

She sighed, glancing up at the large domicile in front of her adorned with carvings of Monstrous Nightmares painted blood-red. The stylized dragon heads had once served as testament to prowess on the battlefield: a representation of beasts slain. She was gazing at the Jorgenson household; but the Nightmares' likeness had become a statement of their family's bond with that particular breed of dragon. That was not such an uncommon thing on Berk. The Nadder design above her own family's door was to be viewed now as respect for their dragons, and not the poor creature her father had killed as a rite of passage when he was young.

Her fist was poised to knock when an obnoxious voice called down to her from the rooftop with ringing familiarity. "I'm surprised you remember where I live!"

She rolled her eyes, shifting from one foot to the other as Snotlout peered down, his eyebrows raised in mild interest.

"I'm just here to deliver eggs, Snotlout—and collect some yak's milk. Then I'll be on my way."

He scoffed, climbing down the ladder with a hammer in his fist. "Yeah, it _would _be something like that."

Astrid's scowled. She could not help but hear the underlying accusation. "What do you mean?"

He slid down the last few rungs of the ladder, feet hitting the ground with a noisy squelch in the mud. "I mean, it's just more of the same—your old friends hardly matter to you anymore. You've got your new circle and that's cool, but don't pretend like we haven't been replaced."

She frowned. "People aren't broken hatchets or worn out furs, Snotlout. They can't be replaced."

He shrugged. "Fine. Forgotten, then. Cast aside—whatever _you_ prefer to call it, Astrid. It makes no difference." He pounded on the front door. "MA! EGGS!"

"I'm getting _married_," she replied, her stomach knotting at the thought. "What did you expect? I'll have other things to worry about than goofing off with the rest of you."

"I don't know what I expected…only that you wouldn't stop being Astrid. But what do I know about it, really? It's not like we're close."

"We are—!" She stopped herself, lip trembling until she bit the inside of it gently. There was no "are", only "was". Being deceptively happy had become a full time endeavor, consuming time she would have put into the academy and its shenanigans. She felt the weight of each syllable as she continued, "We all have to grow up sometime, Snotlout."

"Huh. Well, if you're the example of 'growing up' then I don't think I want to," he snipped.

She was going to fire back, drawing him into a volley of immature griping, like they once did; but the front door opened and Snotlout's mother emerged holding a ceramic jug in her hands. A short woman, forever dooming her son's own height, she was capable of intense passion. SHe cheered as loud as any spectator during dragon races. Astrid did not want to see that fire directed at her for the nasty comeback she had planned for Snotlout. Mothers were fearsome creatures: a fact she happened to know all too well.

"Oh, Astrid!" Snoutlout's mother chimed, gazing at her with that well-meaning glow that was grating on her sanity. "Good to see yo! Congratulations on your engagement, by the way! You'll make such a lovely bride."

Snotlout shuffled past his mother with a loud, "HA!"

Astrid shared the sentiment, though she smiled brightly and offered her bowl of eggs. "Thank you, Mrs. Jorgenson. I'm…well, I…I can't wait." Her grin faltered only a little bit, unnoticed, as she and Snotlout's mom exchanged goods in a slow, awkward hand-off.

"Neither can the village! It's all anybody's talking about!"

Astrid laughed halfheartedly, cradling the jug of yak's milk to her chest. "Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Well, truth be told, we've all been waiting for a while, now! I'm surprised it took so long with the way Stefnir is mad for you." Snotlout's mother stepped back, lingering in the threshold with her hand on the door. "You let me know if there is anything I can do to help with the preparations. The gods know I might not have an opportunity for a while yet." She cast a sidelong glance at her son, who was edging by her again with his hammer still in hand.

Astrid nodded, holding her smile until the door shut, even as Snotlout took care to bump her shoulder as he passed. Her face returned to its much more comfortable dispirited look as she turned for home.

"Well, thanks for stopping by," Snotlout said with a bitter tone, and she did not look at him. "I would say, 'see ya later,' but…"

"No," she called back, making sure not to slosh the milk too much as she strode away. "I don't think that you will."

There was no half-witted response shouted back to make things familiar, to make them alright—just the nonchalant beating of a hammer against a rooftop.

* * *

Stoick the Vast cleared his throat and Hiccup bristled, unbuckling his flight suit as he kept his back to his father. He could feel that gaze boring into him, willing him to be more cooperative—but that had never worked before. One could not simply wish the hard-headed Haddock men into compliance, so it was equally fruitless for Hiccup to hope his father would be deterred from further jabs at conversation. Still, Hiccup said nothing to cut the heavy silence punctured by the occasional clinking of his buckles and the popping fire in the hearth.

He began peeling off leather layers when the chief finally spoke; a foreboding, "We need to talk, son."

Hiccup grimaced. Those words stung like icy sea spray, tiny little needles pricking him all over.

"About…?" He really hated to ask.

"After the Hofferson-Svenson wedding, I'll be travelling to Thor's Temple on Helgafell for the solstice. You're to accompany me this year. There are rituals you must learn, and offerings to make on behalf of our people."

"Fine," Hiccup shrugged, gathering his flight gear in his arms.

The news was not as bad as he had anticipated, but his father was still staring at him intently, squaring his shoulders in a way that made him impossibly broader. Hiccup tensed and the chief's mustache twitched, looking poised for an argument.

Hiccup quirked an eyebrow. "What _else_ is…at Thor's Temple, dad?"

"Other chieftains," Stoick replied, thumbs hooking in his belt. He puffed his chest slightly.

"Ah." Hiccup's fingernails dug into his leather. There was a spreading tightness in his chest; a slow realization of the inevitable.

His father did not quite meet his eye as he added, "Their wives and children—daughters, some of them."

"Right."

_Daughters_. Eligible for marriage and looking for a suitable match, no doubt. Hiccup, heir to the moderately wealthy Isle of Berk and the rumored Dragon Conqueror, would be in high demand. Certainly not for his appearance. He had land and titles, reputation and means. He was a political vein of gold to be tapped and bled for his assets while he manipulated his married-to tribe for Berk's benefit. Always a game of power and resources he was not keen to play.

"You are to choose a bride while we are there," Stoick said with an unnecessary tone of finality, still expecting that argument that would not come.

Hiccup had nothing left to challenge, no more delusional hope buried in the deepest recesses of his heart that things might work out between him and Astrid. She would be Stefnir's wife before too long, and they were destined to fizzle out once more, though not by their choosing. Kisses would become nods of acknowledgment. Embraces would turn to pats on the back and friendly blows to the shoulder. Admissions of love would be just lingering glances, torn away before others noticed the mutual desire racing through the air between them. He was feeding his unhealthy obsession with her, though their ending had been written before they ever really got started.

He could not dispute the need for a bride of his own. Being wed and producing his own heir was his duty to Berk. He did not expect he would be chief in the near future, but distractions would help as they had done for the past two years while he had been fooling himself. Political marriage would not fix things, but a wife might take his mind off of Astrid from time to time—until he was wrapped around a strange woman in the darkness, feeling a figure his hands would never completely accept. He'd yearn for smooth, pale skin over toned muscles; he'd crave the supple frame of his fantasies. Or when he was moving over his wife's body, hearing moans below him that offended his ears with their foreign tone; and when he kissed her lips, he would try desperately not to think of the way Astrid tasted on his tongue, suppressing those memories until he all but forgot them.

Yes. A wife would be a _wonderful_ thing; his inner monologue was more dismal and sarcastic than his father would ever know.

"Okay," he answered, resigned. Stoick's eyebrows quirked surprise, and Hiccup sighed heavily. "That won't be a problem. You're going to have a hand in it, I assume?"

Stoick's posture relaxed a little. "Of course. There are tribes to avoid. I can't you let marry the wrong sort."

"Who's the _right_ sort?"

Hiccup turned for the stairs, the stump of his left leg aching where it met his prosthesis. The changing weather did not help. He winced, hiding it from his father or the man would fuss, tender-hearted though he was roughly the size of a bear.

The chief elaborated, "Erling the Stalwart, of the Vandals of the Vale, has a daughter. Hertha, if I recall correctly. They are the 'right' sort. The've more crops and livestock than they know what to do with. It would make surviving the winters here a good deal easier."

Each step was difficult as Hiccup climbed the stairs to his room. Painful jolts up the lengths of his leg joined by a dull throb that was far too familiar to be distressing anymore. "Sounds like a smart match. I'll keep that in mind when I meet them."

"You're handling this…better than I thought you might." His father was almost apologetic for his lack of faith, and Hiccup was almost forgiving.

"Hey, now. I'm not completely unreasonable, dad," he said, pausing halfway up the stairs. "A political marriage just makes sense—isn't that what you've been telling me?" He smiled, but it was devoid of any true humor. "Besides, I…I have nothing else going for me."

* * *

The smithy drew nearer with every hesitant step. Astrid's heart was racing and her ears were ringing for reasons other than the strike of metal on metal. That sound used to be a comfort; an incessant pounding that made her stomach flutter. Then it had become melancholic song filling her with sadness and regret until, finally, it was a warning, like the distant roar of an wild dragon. She did not want to go in the shop. Not as she was, not in the height of her acting, strolling through Berk with Stefnir.

"Do we have to do this right now?" she asked, trying not to seem too reluctant as he led her along. Her arm was looped through his, limp.

"I'll be painting the Great Hall and hanging banners until dusk. Now's the only opportunity I have," he answered, curling his arm to give hers an affectionate squeeze.

She was no closer to being convinced. "We can come back tomorrow, or next week. Earlier in the morning when—"

"Next week? With the Selection festival? That would be putting it off for too long. We'll be married the following week, and these things can't be rushed," he explained, rubbing her back in what was meant to be a soothing gesture.

Astrid only clenched her jaw, trying to smother her burgeoning ire.

He was doing it again: speaking with a condescending tone like she lacked the capacity to understand otherwise. Like she was a child, not knowledgeable about the ways of the world—_his _world; the only world that ever seemed to matter to him. His was a place in which Astrid was a meek and dutiful wife, reliant on hiim. Whatever version of her nightmares he found solace in, she was eternally grateful the gods had not made it so.

"I see your point," she muttered, trying not to settle her gaze on the tall, slim figure scurrying about the forge with a confidence he seldom possessed elsewhere, matched only in the skies on the back of his dragon.

Astrid did not trust herself to look directly at Hiccup. Not with Stefnir there. As her betrothed called out, rich green eyes glanced up and froze her galloping heart with both a thrill and dread. What a cruel thing it was how readily she noticed Hiccup's most handsome features at the most inopportune times. Like the way his lips parted slightly in surprise at the sight of them, and the way his long fingers curled tighter around his blacksmith's hammer. The way his hair fell damp and heavy against his forehead was not inspiring wholesome thoughts, not when his skin glistened with a veneer of soot and sweat; and not as beads of perspiration trickled down the column of his neck.

They were too close, even at a respectable distance. As long as Stefnir was there, simply being in Hiccup's presence felt indecent. Astrid stared past him into the blazing forge while it warped the air around with its unrelenting heat, making it dance with sweltering passion.

"Stefnir," Hiccup said, more a declaration than a greeting. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I have a couple of jobs I need done." Stefnir pulled his arm free from Astrid's so he could wrap it around her waist, pulling her into his side. "For the wedding, of course." He lit up as Astrid dimmed.

She scrunched her eyes closed, taking a steadying breath. Her face burned like a smithy ember and she wanted to hide behind her hands. She could not play the part of excited bride-to-be in front of Hiccup; she could not smile at him with a tender hand on Stefnir's chest; she could not giggle and feign interest in a wedding she did not want. Hiccup knew to the truth. Hel, he was complicit in it.

Her eyes flickered to him for only a moment, but he was not looking at her. He was staring at Stefnir with that same unsettling placidity that was once reserved for Astrid's pestering visits, concealing a deeper well of emotion she had not known was there before.

"Ah. Well, Gobber can definitely help you with—"

Stefnir, squeezed Astrid tighter and there was something predatory in his smirk as he said, "I wanted to ask you."

Hiccup's eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second and Astrid could almost see the frantic thoughts whizzing about inside his head. He pursed his lips and gazed down at the hammer in his hand, absentmindedly tapping the head against his other palm.

"For what, exactly?" he asked, watching the hammer head fall repeatedly into his open hand. Astrid almost missed the words over Gobber's background noise: loud banging against a anvil with the occasional grunt.

"The ceremonial sword and the wedding bands," Stefnir answered, and he was smug. Too smug.

Astrid tried to pull away from him, pushing off from his broad chest; but he just captured her hand in his, bringing it to his lips to kiss, Hiccup made eye contact for the briefest moment then, and Astrid could see the twitch of a jaw muscle in his narrow face.

"Lundgren is a better jeweler than I am," he stated. "That kind of thing is not my specialty. Wouldn't it be better to ask someone experienced in making rings?"

Stefnir released Astrid and she took a silent breath of relief. She turned toward Hiccup ready to side with him, but he dissuaded her with a barely perceptible shake of his head. He knew her heart and that would have to be enough in the daylight hours. She bit the inside of her cheek, gazing up at the ceiling in muted frustration as Stefnir strode around the shop, admiring children's saddle in various stages of completion.

"Lundgren makes pretty necklaces and strings beads together, and the like," he replied. "No, you actually can craft the rings with incredible detail, and I've seen the level of work you do." He fingered an intricate design carved into the leather of one saddle. He glanced up at Hiccup, and it was a challenge. "There's no one better."

Hiccup was too calm, jerking his head in Gobber's direction as the older man hobbled around, oblivious. "He taught me everything I know—"

"But you're better." Stefnir folded his arms, sitting back on a workbench covered with Hiccup's sketches, taking little care what he sat on.

Astrid wanted more than anything, in that moment, to rush over to her betrothed and shove him off of those intricate plans, meticulously committed to parchment. He did not know the time that went into those drawings. He found the chief's son an irritation, and so was everything related to him.

Hiccup did not protest; it was his own subtle challenge—a dare for Stefnir to make him snap, and a promise he would not.

"And the sword?" he asked, turning his back with a cool abruptness that even Astrid could feel. Stefnir was not offended, unfamiliar with Hiccup's more understated disrespect.

"I thought I might determine the design, as it will be mine anyway. I don't think the bride will mind, in this case." Stefnir followed Hiccup around like a dragon toying with its meal.

He shot Astrid a debonair smile and she tried to return it in a false show of support, equally simpering, until Hiccup cast a sidelong glance at the both of them. She could almost hear the popping of his knuckles as his fist choked the ball-peen hammer.

"I'm sure Astrid's capable of deciding that for herself," Hiccup retorted. "She's standing right there, if you'd care to ask her."

"Hiccup—" Astrid tried to slide in an apology, and caution him to check his tone lest something damning slip—but Stefnir spoke over her.

"Will you do it or not?" he demanded, sidling over to Astrid. He brushed her bangs back as he studied Hiccup, and she just barely recoiled.

Hiccup glared down at the leather spread out in front of him, hands smoothing over it while doing no real work. "No. It's not that I wouldn't love the honor, but I'm swamped with saddle orders for the Selection next week. I can't take on any new projects. You can ask Gobber, though."

Stefnir scoffed, pulling Astrid in close while Hiccup pretended he was busy. She tensed as his rough lips claimed hers with, what she believed, was an intentionally loud smack.

Astrid's eyes were wide open, and she noticed Hiccup's shoulders hunch. He was also placing the majority of his weight on his right foot, something he did whenever his amputation was bothering him, and she wanted to take his pain away, or share in it. Hurting as he hurt, because Stefnir was dangling her in front of him like a fish to a dragon; and the injustice of it all was too much.

"What's this I hear about some fancy wedding trinkets?" Gobber interjected, limping over to them alight with the prospect of getting paid.

Stefnir was taken aback at the his sudden interest, unwillingly swept into a conversation with the older man about the goods to be forged, and it was a mercy. Astrid's eyes could meet Hiccup's with Stefnir distracted. She could freely pass him looks of embarrassment, shame, and regret. He _had _to know she had not meant for any of the torment, that it was Stefnir's doing. She could only mouth "I'm sorry" while Hiccup sighed.

"You're price-gouging," Stefnir complained; and Astrid snapped back to attention, nearly struck by a careless wave of his hand.

"I'm doing nothing of the sort," Gobber insisted, glaring, "but if you don't want to pay for my services, you can go about making your rings yourself, and use your beat-up sword that you never bring by for maintenance."

Stefnir's lip curled and he huffed, "Unbelievable."

Gobber scratched his chin, dirty fingertips leaving black streaks among his whiskers. "Tell you what. Because I am feeling so generous, I will throw in a complimentary sword-sharpening at your leisure."

"That's unnecessary. I have a whetsone."

The older Viking chuckled. His gut jiggled visibly through holes in his filthy blacksmith's tunic. "Ah, that's nothing like giving the entire blade the once-over, eh? Checking for wear and—"

"Fine," Stefnir interrupted. "That will work. When will everything be done?"

Astrid sneered at his back. The blacksmith just took it in stride.

"Ah, you don't rush beauty, lad. It will be done in time for the wedding, don't you worry. I will come to you when it's finished."

Stefnir made a noise of agreement in his throat, rounding on his true objective. "Hiccup, I would like to commission a new saddle for my bride, after the Selection of course."

Hiccup did not even flinch when addressed, but Astrid was incensed for him.

"What are you—my saddle is _fine!_" she hissed, gripping Stefnir's arm like a vice. "You're being a jerk!"

He did not respond to her. His face hardened at the insult and he pried his fingers free from her grasp. "Is _that_ doable?"

He was fixated on Hiccup and his every nuance of reaction. Stefnir's brown eyes were eager, searching for something to latch on to, something that meant he had won; and Astrid brought her hand to her mouth, shaking with contained fury.

"Yeah, sure. No problem," Hiccup answered evenly. "I will get right on that, once I return from Helgafell."

Stefnir's lips quirked with satisfaction, and he placed a commanding hand on the small of Astrid's back, steering her out of the shop. She dug her heels dug into the mud, trying to peer back at Hiccup as they left.

As soon as they rounded the corner, she started on her intended.

"What the Hel was _that?_" she snapped, tearing away from him. Her chest inflated with outrage.

"What do you mean?" Stenfir asked, mocking. He was pleased with himself, claiming triumph in whatever competition supposedly had taken place in the smithy.

"You were trying to rile him up—make him jealous! _Why?_" She was angry and disgusted, but she might as well have said nothing for all the good it did her.

"I was simply placing an important work order," Stefnir shrugged with an innocent façade betrayed by the haughty lift in his brow. "If he wants to feel upset about it, let him; though what gives him the right? There's no getting around that you and I are together—we _belong_ together. I hope he's starting to wake up to that."

He ran his hands over her bare arm and her skin crawled in the wake of his touch. She had about a dozen words she wanted to call him, none of which frequented happy relationships.

"Why do you care?" She nearly stumbled on the words, "He's nothing to me."

Stefnir captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up with a dominance that threatened to send Astrid in a rage before the vows were ever exchanged. Her options included a lifetime of submission or screaming, and she would choose the raw vocal cords if need be.

"Because you're mine," he told her, grinning as his mouth brushed hers. The warmth of his breath made her want to pull away.

She did not balk and Stefnir grew bolder, ghosting his lips over her cheek. _This used to be pleasant_, she told herself. Once, there had been something redeemable in his affections that she needed to find again, because there was plenty of daylight left and he had no reason not to kiss her.

"Right. Everyone already knows that. So, why do you feel threatened by Hiccup? Why can't you just leave him alone?"

Her hands came to his biceps, running over the hard muscle because it was a somewhat loving touch in a harmless enough place. Her fingertips moved lightly as if his skin would turn caustic with more pressure.

"People thought you were his once, and I want to put that to rest. I want _him_ to put it to rest," Stefnir explained.

His reason was petty. He wanted a cockfight he could win; and Astrid was repulsed by his inherent need to squash anyone remotely threatening—though what could she and Hiccup ever become, really? There was nothing to be jealous of—or rather, they would ultimately _be_ nothing to be jealous of. Stefnir's ego held the same swagger she had repelled from Snotlout before Hiccup's smile was ever a sweet thought in her head.

"He already has put it to rest," Astrid remarked. "I've told you that he and I not close anymore, so what were you hoping to accomplish in there?"

She breathed tremulously as full lips dropped to her neck, teasing a sensitive spot Hiccup had found the night before. He had been gentler, more loving, and with greater finesse than Stefnir. She was pulled flush against a solid body, less familiar and largely unexplored. Stefnir's touch was rough and greedy; or so her mind now declared it to be. She felt a twinge of self-loathing at the tiny voice whispering how good he felt physically, though her heart was about ready to forsake her. She knew a better embrace.

"I want to keep him from making the mistake of hope. You don't see the way he looks at you sometimes." Stefnir's hands were possessive on her hips, kneading too harshly. "Really, I was doing him a service because in a couple weeks…"

He chuckled against her neck and Astrid felt her insides twist at the implication. To further emphasize his point, a hand cupped her ass through her leather skirt, fingers strategically situated between the spikes.

And suddenly he was much too forward, though for two years he had exercised restraint.

Her voice was not so much pleading as it was exhausted. Defeated. "Stefnir, don't—"

"I can't wait…" he murmured, nipping at her neck. To Astrid, his teeth were daggers.

"Hey, hey! Save it for the wedding night lovebirds!" shouted passersby, chortling—because she was a spectacle. They were a spectacle. The whole gods damned thing was Berk's latest entertainment.

There was only one person who understood why her fingernails were digging into her Stefnir's flesh, and why she stood so rigid in his embrace. One person was her escape: the remedy for her noxious circumstances—and he was walking by the smithy window where he could see everything.

Hiccup froze, the labored heaving of his chest obvious from where Astrid stood; and a flash of pain rippled between them. Stefnir's tongue was on her neck but her eyes were locked on Hiccup, locked on her. Somewhere, more tribesmen heckled all in good fun and Astrid closed her eyes wanting to melt away. Under her lids, there tears of frustrated, but she would not cry. To the observer she was actually enjoying it.

And it was still daylight.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** THIS is the chapter that really bumps this story to an M-rating. If sexual situations give you pause, then A: you might want to skip this chapter and B: probably stop reading anything M-rated from me, ever. This rest of this fic and its sequels all are rated M for a reason. So, you know...infer, people. Infer.

* * *

Hiccup had never felt worse—not in the two years he spent believing Astrid could not care less about him as he pretended he could not care less about her. That had been a different kind of despair. Nor had he ever feel as intense an urge to vomit as when he had seen Stefnir with his hands on her; his _mouth _on her, tracing the same paths over her skin that Hiccup had already mapped in the dark. His heart was bruised, watching her endure the affections of a man she did not love; to meet her eye as Stefnir kissed her neck, seeing the regret, the disgust, and a helplessness play across her face. That was not Astrid. He could practically hear her silent screams, reverberating in his bones.

He had watched from the smithy window, acting as her lifeline through the entire display. Hiccup did not condone violence. He abhorred it under most circumstances; but though his own misery was not enough to incite him to blows, his pacifistic tendencies had fallen to the wayside for Astrid's public degradation.

That image had been seared into his brain for the rest of the day and well into the evening: Stefnir wrapped around Astrid, and her look of utter revulsion and shame as she silently endured. Hiccup recalled her apologetic grimace then. She shook her head just barely to placate him, to discourage him from action they would both later regret. Stefnir had eventually stopped after a minute or two that felt like it dragged on for an eternity.

"Are you alright? You look like your going to be sick," Gobber spoke up, pulling Hiccup from his stomach-churning memories.

"My leg," he lied; and Gobber asked no further questions.

Hiccup returned to the saddles in progress, seething in his heart and channeling his frustration into the intensity with which he worked, fast and livid, carving into the rich leather with a cathartic fury. He found himself thinking on how much he would love to use her betrothed as Toothless' target practice, only be hit with the nagging realization he no right. The fact circulated through his brain every time he grew too incensed. Stefnir, as repugnant and as pompous a beast he was, had the right—he had every right.

His swirling inner monologue of outrage and self-admonishment had carried him into the evening, until he could return home and trudge up the stairs to the solitude of his bedroom. He had barely looked up when his father greeted him, replying with a halfhearted grunt of acknowledgment. He swiped a candle from the table before climbing the stairs, not enough energy left in him for small talk. Everything ached.

Toothless was excited to see him, enough to bring a feeble smile to Hiccup's lips. He set the candle on the drawing table beside his bed, bathing the room in a dim, flickering glow.

"Hey bud," he murmured, stroking the Night Fury's jaw as a scaly snout pressed into his cheek. "I missed you, too."

Toothless crooned, nuzzling him, flashing his gums. His thick, heavy tail curled in a wide, protective semicircle on the floor with Hiccup at the center: a hug without real contact, and a gesture of affection unaccompanied by heartache. He had forgotten what that felt like.

"I'm sorry we didn't get to fly today," he sighed, patting Toothless. "Gobber's trying to work me to death as punishment for skipping out the forge."

He stepped over the Night Fury's tail, chuckling as the dragon tried to trip him with it. A couple of clumsy hops and he caught his balance, dropping onto the edge of his bed with a soft, weary exhale. Floor boards creaked as Toothless ambled over, leaving his stone slab to be of more comfort. He lied down in front of the bed as a loyal hound might, resting his large, flat head across Hiccup's lap with a huff and the rasp of scales against leather. His weight was oppressive, but Hiccup had nothing left in him with which to protest—he did not have the will to push Toothless away. The dragon was the one relationship he had that was blissfully simple, and he cherished Toothless for it.

"I feel much too old, bud. Old and weathered and young and stupid, all at the same time," Hiccup droned. Toothless responded with a rumble in his throat that Hiccup felt across his lap clearer than he heard, vibrating down his legs as powerful jaws slackened atop his thighs. He put his hand on warm, smooth scales, fingertips gliding over tiny bumps and ridges he knew almost as well as his own skin. "I know you don't understand what's going on but it's nice to pretend that you do."

A light pressure on his back startled him at first, but he smirked as tiny claws scurried up his spine. Large, protuberant eyes met his. A Terrible Terror perched on his shoulder—his other dragon, not quite as precious as Toothless, but still very much cared for.

"I haven't forgotten about you either, Sharpshot." Hiccup scratched him beneath the chin.

But the tiny dragon did not seem interested in affection. He was chattering away, sharp nails digging into Hiccup's flesh through the fibers of his tunic. His tail writhed about, snagging Hiccup's hair and plucking a few strands by the root.

"Ow! Sharpshot! _What-_?" Hiccup winced, shrugging the Terror off.

Toothless raised his head, growling at the smaller dragon, but Sharpshot merely hovered in the air ignoring both his human and the Night Fury. He flew tight circles around Hiccup's head, nowhere near as small as a gnat but every bit as irritating.

"What is it?" Hiccup asked, reaching up to capture the Terror as the dragon made another pass in front of his face. He cradled Sharpshot in his arms much like one would hold a house cat. Sharpshot's whip of a tail coiled like a serpent around his forearm.

Then Hiccup heard it: scratches on the window frame. His heart jolted as something small and reptilian scurried into his room. He craned his neck to get better look, but nothing moved in the shadows. The silence was unnerving. Everything was too still. The only sounds in the room were Toothless's steady breathing and Sharpshots little grunts. Hiccup waited for a darting figure or glowing eyes to peer out from the darkness dancing across his walls in time with the candlelight.

But there was nothing, and he held his breath.

He was not afraid. The intruder was a dragon, he had no doubt; but whose dragon was it and why was it in his house? There were a dozen scenarios he could think of, all of them negative; his brain seemed to lean that way in recent months.

Maybe the Svensons were calling him out? Maybe Astrid was writing him to tell him their love affair was off? Those were two possibilities of equal likeliness that made his stomach sank with an anticipatory dread.

"Hello?" he called, hoping to stir the beast from hiding.

His bed frame creaked, though he had not moved, and he felt the weight of something settling into the furs beside him. He glanced down to find bulbous yellow eyes staring back at him with an uneven blink of membranous lids.

"Odin's balls!" Hiccup yelped, scooting back.

The creature was Terrible Terror, blue, and as stealthy as a longship sailing on a calm sea. Two years had passed since Hiccup had dealt with that particular dragon, but he knew its face—in fact, he knew just about every dragon on Berk and to whom it belonged; the effects of a nearly eidetic memory.

"Sneaky! What are you doing here?"

The Terror was delighted to be recognized—or perhaps it was pleased to have found the right person, having kept away from the Haddock household for so long. With a happy cry, the little blue dragon scrambled into Hiccup's lap. Between Sneaky, Sharpshot, and Toothless, Hiccup felt almost smothered.

Sneaky just purred, but Hiccup saw the scroll tied to his leg, conspicuous against azure scales. His mouth went dry, knowing whose fingers had knotted that parchment in place; and his mind reeling from the multitude of distressing things it might say.

He set Sharpshot down on the bed. The Terror curled up in his furs like he owned them, far too pampered to sleep on the floor most nights. Hiccup had been too doting, overjoyed to have another dragon in the house. He had been permissive of Sharpshot's bad habits when he had first brought him home, and much too tired to fight them now.

Sneaky, however, was more disciplined. The Terror held still with remarkable obedience as Hiccup deftly freed the note from his leg, in a manner that spoke volumes of Astrid's training style. Hiccup smirked at the thought of her kneeling down, exasperated from hours of trying to get the naturally fidgety Terror to hold still. But His face fell as he unfurled the scroll in his hands, fingers prickling with nerves as if the parchment was made of needles.

It read:

_Hiccup,_

_I am coming over. See you soon. Leave your window open. Do not reply._

_-Astrid_

Hiccup read the note twice. Of all the things he expected it might say, that had not even been on the short list.

Though Astrid's handwriting was neat, the exaggerated tilt of the runic script led him to believe it was written in a hurry. He blinked. He read over the words one more time, then the fog seemed to clear from his head, cut by a white-hot knife of panic.

"Baldr's ghost!" he hissed, leaping to his feet.

Sneaky growled, flapping his wings as he was thrown from his lap. Toothless recoiled, ear nubs perked up, as Hiccup streaked past him making a beeline for the window.

Hiccup's heart was frenzied, watching a familiar figure slink between houses, given away only by the moonlight gleaming in her hair. She would duck into the shadows if anyone passed by; but it was late and most of Berk was either drinking itself into a stupor in the Great Hall or tucked away for the night. She went unnoticed, scaling the hill with the grace of a cat, her footfalls noiseless in the grass.

She gazed up at him, smiling. He was frozen, at a loss of what to do or say.

"I'm coming up!" she whispered.

"We can't be doing this. _Are you crazy?_" he found his voice, gripping the window sill until the edge bit into his palms, ensuring him she was not some late night hallucination.

But she _was _crazy, dragging over the ladder that often remained propped against the rear of the house—easy access for repairing damage to the roof caused by Toothless's occasional overzealousness.

"You shouldn't be doing this!" Hiccup insisted as she climbed the rungs after one last check for prying eyes.

She swung into his room, clearing the window effortlessly, and closed the shutters behind her. He wanted her to stay, a large part of him was thrilled to see her, but there was a whole new level of brazen stupidity in carrying on right above his father.

"_Now_ you're having doubts?" she teased.

"I've had my doubts, but I'll be damned if I ever listen to them. That'd be way too prudent of me...What are you doing here?" he asked, trying not to notice her loose bed tunic and the way it hung on her body—he was failing. Realizing how standoffish he sounded, he amended the question. "This is too risky, Astrid. What could be so worth it?"

The whole scene was ridiculous to him: the way she had come to his window like the lovers in romantic verses, eclipsed by how inadvisable it was to rendezvous in the village. All it would take was Stoick the Vast coming check on Hiccup, overhearing another voice in his bedroom. A distinctly_ feminine_ voice. The scandal would crush them even if their relationship _was_ legitimate, though Stefnir's rough and confident handling of Astrid made it very clear it was not.

"I need to talk to you," she wrung her hands, pacing past him. "A bunch of letters exchanged by air mail wouldn't have the same effect as face-to-face." She paused, hand on the bedpost, turning to face him, eyes wide and imploring. Toothless warbled at her and she reached out to pet him without a thought.

Hiccup sighed, accepting they were foolish and incautious and deserved to be caught for their indiscretion. But even if that was to be the way of things, he could not send her away. He took her hand in his, and such simple contact felt incredible after hours of longing.

"I'm listening," he told her.

Astrid opened her mouth, little hesitant squeaks spilling from her as she wrestled with her words. With an aggravated shake of her head, she said, "Look, after today—at the shop—I need to know you're not angry with me."

"Angry with _you_? Why would I be? Just because Stefnir is a complete ass—?"

"I need to know if we're…okay?" she interrupted.

Hiccup snorted. The question was just so bizarre, given the circumstances.

"No. We're not okay. Nothing about _this_—what we're doing—is okay," he replied. Astrid scoffed, rolled her eyes; and he took her other hand as well. "But that hasn't really been stopping us, has it?"

Her mouth was a thin line, cocked with her impatience. "Hiccup, you _know_ what I mean."

He chuckled: a single amused hitch in his breath, though there was no real humor in it. "Yes, Astrid. We're okay. For however long we're going to do this to ourselves, we're okay. I'm beginning to think some dysfunctional part of me enjoys the pain." He met her gaze, stroking the back of her hands with his thumbs, brushing over tiny scars from years of handling sharp weapons. He was haunted by the image of her helplessness, eyes locked on him as Stefnir had his fun. He could still see the crack it had left in her controlled visage. "Are you…how are _you_ holding up?"

Astrid shoulders fell, fatigue etched in all the grooves of her face, cast into stark relief in the low candlelight. "Barely," she answered, weak and defeated; a pitiful rattle Hiccup could not bear to hear from her. "You don't know what it's like, Hiccup, to have pretend like you're enjoying a kiss or a touch when your skin is crawling."

She withdrew her hands from him, folding her arms across her chest. Hiccup gripped her shoulders. She felt small and warm and vulnerable without her cold pauldrons. There was so much about her that was diminishing, burning out like a flame without kindle. No longer fed, no longer stoked; and he was trying to nurture the fire she had left, keeping close to its warmth while there was any left to enjoy.

"No, I don't know; but I imagine I will soon enough," he replied, and her puzzled expression drew the bitter truth from him. "I'm going to Helgafell after your wedding and I'll be coming back engaged." Astrid's eyes widened and he chased it with, "Political marriage, of course."

Her eyes flickered down to settle, unfocused, on the V of his tunic. "Of course," she muttered.

There was nothing he could say to fix it. No magic solution to the inevitable. He could only kiss her forehead in empty reassurance because it was not alright, and it was not going to_ be _alright. Her arms came around him in a loose embrace. They held each other and it was like Hiccup's own impending betrothal was the final straw, tipping the scales. There had been something deceptively open-ended in their relationship before his own resignation to marriage.

The silence between them was far from comfortable. In two nights they had built themselves back up just in time to crumble again. Nothing was more directly opposed to their delusional romance than reality, so loud and intrusive.

Downstairs, his father coughed and Hiccup could hear his footsteps much closer than they were, amplified by his nerves. He released Astrid, stepping back, as the blood rushed in his ears.

"You should go," he said urgently. She bit her lip and advanced, eyebrows knitting in earnest. "If my dad finds out you're here—!"

But she wanted him, and he was powerless; so she grabbed his tunic and pulled him in for a kiss. His brain resisted but his body relaxed. He listened for the creak of stairs that did not come.

Hiccup thought himself the most incorrigible moron of them all.

He slid one hand to the nape of her neck while the other dropped to the small of her back. Every physical part of him was mutinous against reason, and it was far easier and more satisfying in the short-term to give in to the heat stirring in the pit of his stomach.

Then Astrid was pressing into him, no breast binding under her thin clothing. He could feel the warmth of her skin and the peaks of her breasts; and whatever vestiges of responsibility he had shattered in an instant. He had his limits and Astrid routinely blew past all of them.

He hummed in his throat, lips melding against hers, and she released his tunic in favor of raking her fingernails through his hair, bringing goosebumps to his skin. He shuddered feeling the rising desire and that tiny voice that always tried in vain to remind him how idiotic and selfish he was being—but her mouth tasted like ale, and though he was not as fond of the amber liquid as much as most of his tribesmen, it was enticing on her lips: delectable, and far more intoxicating than the ale itself.

"You've been drinking," he muttered, though she was lucid enough, articulate enough. She did not reek of it.

"Wouldn't you?" she breathed into the infinitesimal space between their lips, frowning. "To be numb for a while and forget?"

He would, he thought bitterly. In his opinion, she was guiltless. He would have drank himself to the point of blacking out to stop reliving the encounter with Stefnir in his mind—to block the image of her humiliation and misery—if he had any energy to drag himself to the Great Hall. Instead, he had spent all of it on pounding iron and tooling leather.

But perhaps there was another reason behind her drinking with the way she plucked at lacings of his collar like she was plucking at strings of his arousal. There was something unspoken but obvious: a sense of something forbidden that agitated his hormones.

"There's…something else," she admitted in a small voice. "I needed that drink, or I'd never have the courage to ask you. But it will eat away at me if I don't."

She glanced down his body, and he gazed up at the ceiling as something dangerous welled inside of him. He scrunched his eyes closed, braced for what was coming, as her fingers traced over his belt buckle. The buzz of lust around them was more potent than on Dragon Island. Everything had been speeding in one sure direction over the past couple of days, leading them to that precipice. He could feel it coming for them like a tidal wave, but did nothing to withstand the impact.

"Hiccup…I have no right to ask you…"

But she did, and she was; and he was pathetic to consider being her illicit lover for even a fraction of a moment. So what, then, was he for pondering it a great deal longer?

"Don't," he replied, grasping her wrists to still her hands from undressing him before all protests dissolved in his mind.

"It can't be _him_, though," she pleaded, desperation pierced him like a blade to the heart.

She was not the type to show fear. To break. Hiccup could not understand that trepidation of a wedding night as she did, but he felt it in her voice, saw it in her eyes. Stefnir would undoubtedly see their wedding night as some great victory, arrogant braggart as he was, drunk off their matrimonial wine.

Astrid and Hiccup both saw it play out in their minds. They tightened their hold on one another. The line was there, laid down in front of them, and everything was still excusable, permissible as long as it was not crossed.

Though it became ever clearer that it was a line that was meant to be crossed.

"It can't be him, Hiccup," Astrid repeated. The use of his name tugged as his heartstrings with unnecessary vigor.

She gazed up at him, eyes bright with resolve. Astrid was there—the _real_ Astrid, shining through defeat—and Hiccup had never been able to resist her vivacity.

He pulled her closer. "It isn't fair to put that on me. Don't use me as preparation for him."

She grimaced at his words, but it was a pointless, empty threat. He couldn't refuse her, and he couldn't expect anything more to evolve between them. She would not be bedded on her wedding night only to come back to him afterward. No. She was using him and he was using her, with all the best intentions that would ultimately count for nothing in a few days' time.

"I know this is awful. It's unfair. _I'm_ awful for even entertaining the thought." She did not sound the least bit hesitant as she undid his belt with an ease that made his blood run hot.

She had made up her mind, and so she had made up _his_ mind; and Hiccup could no longer bother with what was right and fair.

"No," he answered, wits dulled by the feeling of her curves in his hands as he kneaded her gently through her tunic. "I mean, yes, it is unfair…But don't bother asking me again, because I'm not going to say no," he corrected. "That would be the sensible thing, but we both know that's not a strength of mine."

She laughed, and it was a genuine and gorgeous sound. "Nor one of mine, apparently." They shared a smile and that damning comfort was all too palpable, making a love affair far easier than it should ever be. "I'm sorry." She dropped his belt to the floor and it hit with an unapologetic clang.

Hiccup bristled, but there was no resulting inquiry from downstairs.

He did not know what possessed him, be it a raging jealousy or some innate masculine sense of entitlement to what his heart had claimed years ago. With a twitching hand, he mapped her body over her clothes. A of him was swirled with joy, already feeling so much of her through thin fabric. He felt he was dreaming; it had been long-time fantasy to have her to himself. But holding her, facing the enormity of their decision, stripped all juvenile giddiness from the moment.

Astrid let out a shaky breath before wrapping herself around him.

Toothless snorted irritably as they bumped into the bed. They were connected at the mouth, almost tripping over the Night Fury's head where it had been resting, bored with a poignant exchange he did not understand. They fell back, Astrid sprawled on top of Hiccup, sending their Terrible Terrors scurrying away, disgruntled.

Their kisses were hot, open-mouthed gasps, hands exploring with tremulous delight. Hiccup's heart was racing in his chest, mirrored by Astrid's, which he could feel against his arm as he reached up to undo her braid. Silky blonde strands tumbled loose, and he combed his fingers through it, the aroma of scented oils overpowering him with an alluring, heady rush. He never wanted to forget the way she smelled; he wanted it seared into his brain forever, to be recalled later when he wistfully stroked the hair of someone else.

In his dreams she always wanted him just as ardently as he wanted her; but a midnight fabrication could no longer compare to the reality of her hungry touch,. Her hands beneath his clothes left scorched trails of fervent need in their wake. He moaned as her fingertips teased newly found erogenous zones.

Tongues and lips and clumsy teeth came crashing together again and again, not as hurried as on Dragon Island, though they might have been better off to succumb to a similarly raw, frantic passion as they had felt then. But they kissed each other slow and savoring, appreciating the way their lips fit together: a relaxed enough pace that Hiccup felt the occasional twinge of regret, of better judgment, beseeching him to find his common sense because they were only making matters infinitely worse for themselves.

True, they loved each other. They craved each other—and they were only going to end up hurting each other. Hiccup knew it. He was certain Astrid knew it, too, neither one of them able to wiggle out of their marriages as their responsibilities crushed all happiness in their lives. But that knowledge was not enough to make them stop. They were long past that point. Nothing rational enough could be said to diffuse the lust consuming them with every article of clothing they shed.

It was all a blur; a flurry of gentle caresses, breathy moans, and "Is this okay?" Reassurances, encouragements, bare skin against bare skin, raising the temperature in the room like they were two beings, born of fire. In the candlelight Astrid was soft: all gentle curves and edges, shadows playing across the contours of her body, begging to be chased by his tongue. What he wanted to do was restrained by inexperience. Under his fingertips though, she was solid: toned, lithe muscle, rubbing against him with a dizzying friction. Every sensation was all new, exhilarating, yet oddly familiar. It felt natural, as if they had always done it; like making love was a nightly thing.

Oh, how Hiccup wished with everything he had that it could be a nightly thing.

But it never would be.

So, he tangled his hand in her hair carefully, adoring the texture of it as it slipped between his fingers. He propped himself upon his elbow as she straddled him, nibbling along her neck as she bent down over him. She gasped, and he was getting high of her reactions to him. Every whimper, every startled, pleasured jerk from her was an affirmation. He wanted her to react to him, to forget about Stefnir, erasing the other man with a sweep of his tongue over her thrumming pulse. His name was intoxicating on her lips, and she hissed it into the stifling air made thick and oppressive by the heat of their ministrations.

In the back of his mind, Hiccup was a little bit surprised. He did not expect it to come so easy—to feel so _right_. Her naked body should have turned his face red, paralyzed him, or made him shrink back and stutter when she rolled them over. But he only gazed at her with reverence, finding her every bit as flawless as he had always believed she would be. Her pale skin was lovely against the dark fur beneath them; and she was comfortable in his bed, with him on top of her, like she belonged there. The very notion was offensive to whatever moral constructs dictated the wrongness of their actions.

He had thought, maybe, the one hitch in their plan would be removing his prosthesis along with his pants. Astrid saw his amputation in all its scarred glory for the first time—but she did not balk, she was not disgusted in the slightest. The last potential thing that might hinder them was rendered inconsequential with a single, curious touch. She fondled the stump with a tenderness he could see, but not feel; the sensation nearly dead in the tissue that remained. The touch was intimate, erotic like nothing he had previously experienced.

More reassurances were spoken: declarations of attraction and need, whispered promises that it was alright as he settled between her legs. Then he pushed forward with excruciating patience and care until she was entirely his and he was entirely hers.

Astrid closed her eyes and sighed. She bit her lip to stifle a moan that she couldn't quite suppress. Hiccup found his balance, albeit a bit lopsided while missing a leg. He moved, and they breathed together, their hearts beating in tandem. Her face pressed into his shoulder, his face buried in her hair. They were one in the same and separate all at the same time; and Hiccup could not think anymore because the only thing real was Astrid wrapped around him, and _around_ him, hotter, and slicker than he ever could have fantasized. Her quiet whimpers into his skin, the flashes of golden light reflecting off the sweat on their bodies—all perfect like it should not be; wonderful and dreamlike enough for worries and scruples to fade into the shadows of the room. First times were supposed to be fumbling and terrifying, awkward and embarrassing; but none of those words fit. Perhaps their love making was how it was supposed to be: no pressure or expectations, both mutual ready for the other in a way that only they could satisfy.

It was an eternity and too brief all at once, seeming to last a blissful forever before ending abruptly in with a blinding light that rendered Hiccup an incoherent mass of strangled moans and uncontrollable spasms. Astrid clung to him, whispering things in his ear that might have made the snap of his hips more aggressive had he the clarity of mind to register them—things along the line of "yes" and "good". The feeling was indescribable, incomparable, and far better than any sensation he had, or might ever feel again without her.

And he was dazed, every last bit of energy spilled into Astrid; and she was stroking him. Her fingers danced over his shoulders and his back, patterns drawn languidly over flushed and freckled skin. As the world materialized around them, and he could hear the snores of his dragon over his own ragged breathing, the obscuring cloud of desire lifted; and every fiber in him stiffened as the full realization of what they had just done hit him like a fist to the gut. In hindsight, in the aftermath, he could see the entirety of his mistake. _Their_ mistake. Their beautiful, mind-blowing, would-do-it-over-again mistake.

What they had done was irreversible; a hasty decision from whence there was no coming back. Physical satisfaction could not squash the guilty twist of his conscience. He pushed up on his hands, slowly meeting Astrid's gaze. In her eyes was something strange: not quite contentment, not quite regret.

"Hiccup," she murmured, her palm warm and soothing against his cheek. He leaned into it. She knew and he knew how amazing it had been.

How _wrong_ it had been.

It had been the single, most extraordinary moment in his entire life. Better than flying. But the unintended consequences began to take shape in the silence between them. In the morning, she would be back with Stefnir; in the morning, the pang in Hiccup's chest would be deeper, more agonizing at the sight of them together. The jealous monster in him would roar louder and fight harder to see Stefnir torn from Astrid; but regardless of the unavailing victory he had just won in the confines of his bed, Stefnir had a legal claim to Astrid. One that predated Hiccup's feelings for her; one honored by two respected families; one that neither he, nor Astrid, were in a position to dissolve.

In the end, Stefnir still won, and Astrid might find comfort in the memory of their entwined bodies. But it would also be another thing to suffer when they could no longer indulge those urges.

A painful fact echoed in Hiccup's mind, taunting him: they were only going to hurt each other. They had already started. Whenever Astrid was with Stefnir and Hiccup was with his future wife, they would remember each other and at they had done; it was torment that was worse than ignorance, in retrospect.

He withdrew from her saying nothing, and she sat up, covering her breasts with her arms as if modesty was suddenly a virtue again.

"I should…I should go," she mumbled, sliding out of the bed to collect her clothes. Sneaky perked up at the movement, hovering over to the bed to watch his human.

"Yeah, that—I think that would be best," Hiccup replied, handing her the tunic hanging off his bedpost. Their fingers brushed when she took it from him and it was completely and utterly absurd that he still felt his heart skip over a contact so benign.

Astrid dressed quickly, and he tried to not take it as a personal insult.

"I'm sorry about this, Hiccup…but I'm also _glad_ and…"

"You love me, right?" he interrupted, as if hearing her say the words would somehow absolve him.

"That's why I came," she answered, bending down to capture his lips in a tender kiss. Sweet, innocent. _Wrong_.

He kissed her back anyway.

"Then it's good enough for now, I suppose." He rubbed the back of his neck, done. Spent. He wished to fall asleep and forget the day ever happened.

Well, most of the day: the parts were he had any sense.

She gave him a wry smile and left, creeping out of the window with Sneaky on her shoulder. Hiccup fell back against the bed, hands over his face, cursing himself. The scent of her hair lingered on his pillow, mixing with hints of sweat and sex and all of his regret.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: ** Just a friendly reminder that this story is 5 years old. I'm not currently writing this, but rather editing and re-posting it. I've changed minor things, but the story itself is pretty much set at this point, with all it's imperfections that are glaring to me now.

* * *

Astrid was wide awake, though her eyes itched with fatigue. No amount of tossing and turning, nor praying for sleep, could cure her insomnia. Her mind was reeling with a tempest of feelings she could not block out by willpower alone.

She flopped on to her back with a groan, draping a hand over her forehead and staring at the indistinct shapes on her ceiling. The still and quiet of the wee morning hours provided the perfect opportunity for unwelcome reflection. Everything in her was confused, unsettled, prompting her to do irrational things, like sneak out of her house again. She wouldn't, of course; that would be one mistake too many. Strange, how everything was the same and different, all at once—how her bed was familiar, though it felt too big, too empty now. She still felt like herself, but less ignorant. Her favorite bed clothes felt too itchy and stifling on her skin, and she kicked her blanket off, reveling in the caress of brisk air on her bare thighs.

Her legs were drawn up, knees bent with her feet flat on the bed. She closed her eyes and she could still feel him: Hiccup, moving over her with such measured passion. He had felt heavier than she imagined he would, solid and real, his lean muscle contracting beneath her fingertips, with every surge of his hips rendering her breathless. His freckled skin was warm and smooth, except for the callouses on his industrious hands gliding over her body with hunger. She had whispered her need into his ear as his breath rattled against her neck. She tried to recall every detail: the scent of him surrounding her, the creaking of his bed frame, and that intoxicating heat between her legs. The epicenter of pleasure had been maddening, wet and exquisite, where their bodies joined. To feel that tantalizing burn and unyielding flesh boring into her, and to know that it was Hiccup…

The more she tried to commit it all to memory, the faster it faded into something surreal and intangible. Almost like it had never happened at all. Postcoital bliss was replaced by mounting frustration: something only _he_ could satisfy. She had to have him again; she was desperate to hear another shattered moan spill from his lips—and it tore at her chest like a vicious and unrelenting animal. Her eyes burned and she pressed her palms into them, swallowing thickly.

She did not lament the loss of her maidenhead. Frankly, she was relieved to be rid of it. That expectation, and fear of the unknown specter of sex, no longer loomed over her like a reminder of a whole world she did not yet understand**.**

She had given herself to Hiccup and he had obliged, thank the gods. He was the only one worthy of her and that was the problem. She had not wanted Stefnir to be her first experience with sex, but after Hiccup, she felt like it could _never _be with him. Or anyone else. With his gentle touch, Hiccup had spoiled her for any other man as long as she loved him. _How_ could she accept her soon-to-be husband when every fiber of her being craved Hiccup instead? The thought of Stefnir on top of her was nauseating. She clapped a hand over her mouth and forced down the bile. A dry sob tore loose when she thought of Hiccup making love to his future bride—some other women receiving his tender affections, lying beneath him as only Astrid should.

What was meant to be a solution, sparing her from the manhandling of her virginity, had only caused a deeper heartache. She had gambled; a risky move with unpredictable emotional repercussions. At the very least, she had hoped sex might be so strange and uncomfortable, that it would be less painful when she and Hiccup inevitably parted ways for their parallel lives. She had not anticipated how complete her relationship with him would become from one night of poor judgment. Nor how right.

But she could not keep him.

She sat up, hair matted from a restless night. There was no point in staying in her room, wallowing in her self-pity.

Tears would not be wasted over the grave she had dug for herself.

If sleep was a lost cause, then there were chores to be done. From the faint glow on the horizon, the sun appeared close enough to rising that her early start to the day would not be considered too odd. She would go to the well first, retrieving water to wash her face and comb through her hair, all the while using the extra time gained to steel her gut so she could face her Stefnir again. She would need every extra minute of practice to play the convincing virgin; and to be able to be in the same general vicinity as Hiccup without being quite so obvious that she was his. Completely. Irrevocably.

* * *

Two bales of hay sat side-by-side, each donning a cloth with a crudely painted target.

"Will you be on my team for the race?" Stefnir asked, nocking an arrow with ease.

He had waited for Astrid in the Great Hall after breakfast like he did almost every morning. She had let him slip and arm around her waist, proud her skin crawled only a little.

She was not afraid of Stefnir. Not his possessive stares, nor his assertive hands. His touch, though unwelcome, could never be as intimidating as it had been only the day before. He could not take anything from her—nothing more intimate and personal than what she had given Hiccup. On _her_ terms, of her own free will. Stefnir could never have that claim. No matter what came next for them, she could adapt and endure for he would not have that most vulnerable piece of her.

"Well?" he prodded and Astrid chewed at the inside of her lip.

When they weren't talking, being around him was a good deal easier. She could almost forget he was there, squinting as she focused on her target already decorated with arrows—but Stefnir was eager for conversation. Only hours before, she had been moaning Hiccup's name. She wished Stefnir would, for once, find something more fascinating than her. He had no idea that every syllable she uttered dripped with a confession he could not hear; one damning truth she wished she could scream at the top of her lungs and be done with it.

"I won't be racing." She sighed, drawing back her own bowstring. "Unfortunately, mom has forbidden me from any competition until after the wedding." She took a breath and loosed her arrow; it hit the bullseye edge. "I think she's afraid the scrapes and bruises would clash with the dress."

"Really? I think it would be all the more genuine." He raised his bow, taking aim at his target. "All the more you."

Astrid could not help the smirk on her face. Bonding over archery practice felt good, sharing a fondness for weaponry. She remembered clinging to such moments in the beginning of their relationship, believing for nearly two years that it would be enough to bridge the loveless gap between them.

Too bad appealing to who she had once been was not enough to satisfy who she had become.

"If you need another teammate, there's always Gustav Larson," she suggested, picking another arrow from the pile. "He'd bend over backwards to be in an official dragon race."

Stefnir scoffed, firing his next shot; it stuck the white ring around the bullseye. They were not keeping score, but Astrid felt a small degree of smugness.

"Gustav is no match for Hiccup and Toothless. I need a better flyer on my team, or for Hiccup to use another dragon. With a Night Fury in play, the odds are hardly fair. It's practically cheating."

Astrid's breath hitched but it went unnoticed. Hiccup's name on Stefnir's lips was like an accusation and she bristled. The appropriate response was to agree with him, but she was not on speaking terms with her sense of propriety.

"Hold on, now," she said, nocking another arrow. She straightened up and pulled back the bowstring. "Hiccup could win a dragon race on a Gronckle. He's the best flyer on Berk. There's something intuitive there, when he flies. The type of dragon he's on hasn't been the determining factor in any his racing victories." He released the arrow. It hit dead center.

"I doubt that." Stefnir lowered his bow, one end in the grass, resting his folded hands atop the other. "It sounds like you want him to win."

"No, I'm…I'm just being realistic." She plucked at her bowstring, avoiding his gaze.

"So, you'll be rooting for the right team?" Stefnir asked, quirking his brow.

She gave a noncommittal shrug. "Don't I always?"

Stefnir's grunt was skeptical, his lips pursed as he gathered the remaining arrows. His eyes were piercing and Astrid continued to stare at the bow in her hands like it was the most fascinating thing. If looks had any physicality behind them, Stefnir could've stripped her bare for a shred of honesty.

"At least you'll be there in support of Reyr?"

She glanced at him then, resolute. Whatever complicated relationship the two of them were in, his youngest sibling was an innocent. "Of course, I will. I wouldn't miss the Selection for—!"

Stefnir cut her off with a forceful kiss. Firm and cold. When he pulled back, he was searching. Scrutinizing. "I love you, Astrid."

Her simpering smile felt too wooden on her face, but she was finding it harder to care.

"I know you do," she replied, raising up on her toes to kiss his cheek, his beard tickling her chin. She could stand it, because it was_ her_ decision to kiss him, and it was only another small piece of her daily charade that would carry her into the evening hours she yearned for.

Stefnir was bewildered for a moment, then his jaw clenched. "Are you alright?" he asked. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled back from her with that same, penetrative stare.

"Yes, I'm fine. Why?"

He turned away and his tone was biting. "No reason."

And all Astrid could think about were flashes of green eyes above her, bathed in candlelight.

* * *

"Okay. Suppose we waxed up our dragons' scales—?"

Hiccup glanced up at Tuffnut, flat expression. He had been massaging his cramping, overworked hands. The soot of the forge lingered beneath his short fingernails. "Well, they'd be more water resistant. Not the same thing as aerodynamic. So, unless we're racing underwater and nobody told me…"

Tuffnut groaned, hands thrown up in defeat. "Well, I don't hear any of _you_ coming up with any winning strategies!"

Snotlout snorted. He set his tankard down and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before answering. "Here's a winning strategy: Fly our dragons, catch some sheep, and drop them into our baskets."

Hiccup smirked. "Simple _and _effective. However did you come up with that idea?"

"I have my moments.'

"Alright, assholes. How about a team name, then?" Ruffnut huffed, folding her arms. "What say you, team captain?"

Hiccup shrugged. His eyes settled on Fishlegs. The other boy seemed oblivious to the conversation, scribbling away in the Book of Dragons, tongue poking out between his lips.

"I say we go with Specter Fuckers!" Tuffnut offered, waving his hands dramatically, as if there was a banner hung in front of his face displaying his suggestion. "I heard the other team is going by the 'Specters'. Our team name implies—"

"I know what it implies, Tuff, thanks," Hiccup interrupted. "No vulgarity, please."

"Ugh, fine," Tuffnut conceded. "The Specter Defilers?"

"Oh! Specter Ravagers?" Ruffnut chimed in.

Hiccup rolled his eyes and resumed working the aches from his palms.

"Both of those suck Gronckle ass!" Snotlout propped his feet up, unconcerned with dried bits of mud that fell from his boots onto the table.

Without tearing his eyes away from the Book of Dragons, Fishlegs dragged his plate away from Snotlout's filthy footwear.

Snotlout asked, "How about the _Snot_wings?"

The twins blew loud, identical raspberries.

"Oh, come on! It's way better than anything you two muttonheads could come up with!"

Hiccup lost interest in his friends' argument over which cringe-worthy team name was more suitable. Fishlegs's charcoal pencil continued to scratch across the pages of the Book of Dragons, drawing his attention. The other boy's round face was scrunched up with excitement, his eyes alight in a way Hiccup envied. His hours were occupied with children's saddles and torturous thoughts of Astrid. He missed the age of fifteen, when dragons were all that mattered and love was easier.

"What are you working on, Fishlegs?" Hiccup asked, making the other young man jump.

"Oh! Hiccup. You startled me!" Fishlegs laid the book on the table and slid it across the table. "I've been filling in missing data for various dragon species native to the archipelago."

Hiccup's brow furrowed as he examined the open page. It was an old drawing, very stylized—one of the earliest entries in the book. "Tide Gliders?" He considered Fishlegs, trying to keep his skepticism to a minimum. "Fishlegs, what dragons have you encountered lately that we haven't already thoroughly studied?" He tapped the book pointedly. "Tide Gliders haven't been seen around Berk for over a decade. They were all but hunted to extinction for their curative saliva."

"I haven't _seen_ a Tide Glider, of course," Fishlegs replied. "but I've read about them."

Hiccup quirked an eyebrow. "Apart from the Book of Dragons?"

"Yeah!" Fishlegs cleared his throat and adopted an official tone. "The archives are _full_ of firsthand accounts—documents of sale and damage claims. 'So-and-so, son of Some Guy, to be monetarily compensated in a value equal to that of his fishing vessel, sunk by one fearsome Tide Glider, which fired, upon their encounter, a single mass of acidic—'"

"I, uh…I get the point," Hiccup said, holding up a hand.

Fishlegs grinned sheepishly. "I'm paraphrasing, of course, but there is all kinds of dragon knowledge scattered in between boring legal stuff. I'm surprised you didn't know, if I'm being honest." He took back the book.

"Ball Busters!" the twins and Snotlout suddenly cried in unison. They grinned at Hiccup, hopeful.

"No," he deadpanned and their faces fell. With scathing looks, they leaned forward and brainstormed more team names. Hiccup turned back to Fishlegs. "I've never found the archives particularly thrilling reading."

Fishlegs buried his nose back into the Book of Dragons. "It would be worth it for all of the bizarre laws. Things about how to properly conduct revenge killings—how many enemy lives compensate for loss of limb, a law about a_ holmgang_, and—"

Hiccup's lip curled. "A _what?_"

Fishlegs straightened up and answered, "_Holmgang_! You know, suitors challenging each other for the right to marry a lady—or something along those lines—but that's not nearly as interesting as this dispute between two farmers over the right to breed this one particular yak—"

Hiccup felt like his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

He shook his head, holding up both his hands. His mouth went dry. "Wait. Wait, wait, _wait._ Back up. There's a _law_ about fighting for a woman?"

"Yeah," Fishlegs answered. "We're _Vikings_, Hiccup. There's probably a law about fighting over…everything."

"What…What does this law say, exactly?"

Fishlegs shrugged. He screwed up his face, trying to recall words scribbled on aging parchment. There was an overall disinterest in his voice. "Uh, well, from what I remember, it's just one guy challenging another for the right to marry a lady. Whoever draws first blood wins or some such rule—it's in the archive, y'know, if you're interested. Although, I'm not sure _why_ you would be interested." Blue eyes narrowed in Hiccup's direction.

Hiccup laughed nervously, hearing the question forming in the other young man's head. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants. He did not know if he was more worked up by his friend's curiosity, or the ill-advised hope collecting in a corner of his heart. "I-I'm going to be the future chief. I should probably, er…familiarize myself with our laws. Especially the more obscure ones in case an issue ever arises."

"An issue…?" Fishlegs's brow knitted. His gaze skipped all over Hiccup's face, connecting dots that Hiccup could not see.

Hiccup stood up from the table, tugging on the hem of his tunic to smooth out his clothes. He felt uncomfortably transparent as he stated, "I'm going to…look into this _holmgang_ thing. Whereabouts in the archive did you say it was?"

"I, uh…didn't, but you can find it on the center table, beneath a stack of trade agreements—at least, that's where I _think _I left it, but—"

Hiccup did not hesitate. He turned for the archives—a tiny, forgotten chamber tucked behind stacked casks of ale in a corner of the Great Hall seldom visited.

As he strode away from the table, he heard the twins and his cousin shout, "The Neck Breakers!"

After a moment without reply, Tuffnut called, "I'll take your silence as a yes!"

* * *

Astrid folded her arms as she approached the table of familiar faces she hardly knew anymore. She should have sat with them every day for the past two years rather than Stefnir and his friends. The seat beside Ruffnut used to be hers, but it had come to be like crossing into hostile territory now.

"Snotlout, if Hookfang lights himself on fire and you fly close to Svenson…" Tuffnut held his two hands parallel, demonstrating his tactic.

Ruffnut cleared her throat, elbowing her brother and nodding at Astrid. The male Thorston clammed up, and even Snotlout's posture was defensive. Fishlegs shot her a fleeting glance, then retreated deeper into the Book of Dragons with his shoulders hunched.

"Whoops. The enemy approaches," Tuffnut droned, and his scowl stung like crack of a whip.

Astrid swelled indignantly, hoping the puffing of her chest would repel their cool stares.

"I'm _not_ your enemy," she replied, hands on her hips.

"You fly with Stefnir," Snotlout grumbled.

"Yes, but not during the—oh, what does it matter?" she scoffed. No excuse would ever satisfy. "I'm looking for Hiccup. Have you seen him?"

They were all taken aback.

Ruffnut perked up. "What do _you _want with Hiccup?"

The young men were far too interested in her answer as well, leaning forward in their seats. Everywhere she went and everyone she spoke to was trying to trap her, and Astrid just wanted to be the one place—with one person—with whom she could speak freely. She looked away, jaw clenched.

"Wedding…things." She shifted from one foot to the other, avoiding Ruffnut's prying gaze. "I have to talk to him about the ceremonial sword. He's forging it," she lied.

Snotlout and Tuffnut let out loud, hollow laughs.

"_Wow!" _Tuffnut remarked.

Snotlout scratched at his chin. "You really know how to twist the knife, don't you Astrid?"

Her face burned, and she balled her hands into fists.

"Shut up. In order for that to be true, Hiccup would have to have feelings for me and he's made it abundantly clear that he doesn't."

"Right—and Barf and Belch only has one head," Tuffnut snickered.

Snotlout smirked. "And dragons breathe ice!"

Fishlegs spoke up, "A-Actually, there are some species that _do_ exclusively—" The withering look Snotlout gave him only made him more bold. "Well, some of them _do_, thank you very much."

Astrid glanced beseechingly at Fishlegs, the most sane and rational person at the table. She hated the dishonesty. The duplicity. The friends she once had were all but memories, caged up by two years of lies.

"Hiccup's in the archives, reading up on old laws or something," Fishlegs answered.

Astrid's brow furrowed. She opened her mouth to ask why, but snapped it shut when she realized it did not matter. Where Hiccup was, there she would be also.

"Thanks, Fishlegs," she said, and there was something about his intrigued gaze that made her stomach flip.

She hurried toward the archives, keeping her head down and greeting no one as she wove between long tables. Once she was behind the casks of ale, she was invisible. To the vast majority of Berk, the room might as well have been a figment of imagination for how often it was noticed and how often it was used.

She knocked once, but threw open the door anyway, greeted by her startled lover. He spun around with a worn old piece of parchment clutched firmly in his hands.

"Astrid!" he exclaimed, releasing the breath he had been holding.

Every muscle relaxed at the sight of him. She smiled.

"Hiccup," she murmured, shutting the door behind her. The chatter from the Great Hall was muffled to a faint and distant hum.

She glanced around the room, wrinkling her nose at the cobwebs and fine layer of dust settled over everything. There was one large table in the center of the claustrophobic little room, littered with parchments and a few large, leather-bound tomes. Only a couple of narrow shelves stood against the far wall, lined with scrolls and fragments of stone with faded writing—the oldest standing claims to land and titles, likely validating the legitimacy of the Haddock bloodline, if traced back. All things considered, it was a sparse collection of documents, but their people were not known to be scholarly, or all together that literate. Their archives could never compare to the majesty of great, foreign libraries Trader Johann spoke of, but it was decent enough for Berk and its priorities.

"Wh-what are you doing…here?" Hiccup regained a bit of composure. He repeated, with more conviction, "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you," she answered.

She took a step toward him but he did not meet her eye. He leaned back against the table, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, holding the strange document loosely in the other. She wished he would look at her, but he remained withdrawn.

"What's the matter?" she demanded, bending slightly to catch his gaze. As she stood, she his eyes came up with her.

"Last time you needed to see me things…things kind of went…" he gestured between them vaguely.

"Good," Astrid said.

"Good?" he repeated, far more surprised than he should have been. He started fidgeting with the parchment in his hand, nervous in a way he had not been since they were fifteen and innocent. "I…Really? I mean, we just—_really?_"

"Hiccup…you were there. How could you think it was anything but—?" She swallowed hard, gut clenching as she remembered the awkward, bashful aftermath. "Me, right? I wasn't—"

"No!" he blurted out, and she recoiled. "No, you were great, Astrid." His ears went red and he coughed into his fist. "It was incredible for me, but I thought maybe…with how quickly you left…"

"That I didn't enjoy it?"

"Or you finally realized how stupid this all is. I keep waiting for one of us to wise up. I figured it would likely be you, and that last night was…"

Astrid felt a pang in her chest. Her fears were the same. They were always waiting for the next break—something to shatter the daydream they were living in. Being carefree and happy, truly content, had become a very foreign concept. They were doomed to an inescapable misery, so perhaps it was better to end things on their terms, while they still had some semblance of control?

But neither one of them was strong enough.

She closed the space between them, pleased he did not balk.

"Hiccup…" She took his chin between her thumb and index finger, guiding him forward for a tender kiss. Her body tingled when his free hand came to her waist. He was kissing her back, sweet and polite, typical of his affections until she stirred up his desire.

They pulled back, mouths parting with a soft, wet noise. Astrid slid a hand into his hair. His thumb was idly strokinh her side through her fitted tunic; and he was entirely focused on her in that way that made her feel feminine and desirable, yet every bit her bold, uncompromising self, in a way Stefnir never could.

"So, I-I was…I was good?" he whispered, almost inaudible. When Astrid clicked her tongue, he clarified, "I mean, for you. I was good for you?"

Astrid distinctly remembered arching up into him, hot and breathless, as his busy hands explored her body.

"Yes, you idiot," she muttered, swatting his arm.

He smiled, but it was neither smug, nor lecherous.

"That's…" he closed his eyes, bringing his forehead to hers.

Astrid ran a hand down his arm. She tried to curl her hand around his, but her fingers brushed against the parchment she forgot was there.

"What is that?" she asked, inclining her heads toward the document.

Hiccup's eyebrows rose, glancing down as if just remembered it was in his hand. There was an air of excitement about him as he held it out in front of him. "A solution to our problem. I think."

"What are you talking about?"

"I think this is a way I can get you out of marrying Stefnir Svenson." The resolve in his eyes caught her off guard. For a moment, she dared to believe it might be true.

She took the document from him, scanning it, narrowing in on words like "challenge" and "suitor" and "blood" with mounting nausea. She could see it play out in her head: the violence, the clashing of blades, and Stefnir's ruthlessness. The air was stolen from her lungs in an instant.

"Hiccup, no," she gasped.

He took the parchment from her, waving it. "This is the answer."

"_No,"_ Astrid insisted. She could see him, writing on the ground with Stefnir brandishing a blood-stained sword.

Hiccup scowled, as he so readily did when his ideas were challenged. "Do you _want_ to marry the guy?"

"Of _course_ I don't want to marry him! But what this is talking about—this _holmgang_ thing—first blood?" Her incomplete thought hovered in the air like a plea.

Hiccup rolled up the document, tossing back to the table with blatant frustration. "You don't think I can do it."

"I don't want you to get hurt," she corrected. She had no doubt he would do it, but his success was the questionable thing. "This is _combat_, Hiccup. Not something you can talk your way out of, or invent some crazy…Oh, my gods." She turned to him, wide-eyed. Hiccup was leaning back against the table again, deep in thought. "You _have_, haven't you? In your head, there's already some ridiculous—!"

He was so despondent as he replied, "I can't…sit by and watch him put his hands on you anymore."

Astrid's lip trembled, barely containing further protest. She was powerless to dissolve her own engagement and there was Hiccup, providing a way out with a selflessness that stung. She never wanted—never intended—his self-sacrificial tendencies to solver _her_ problems; to come to the rescue in _her_ battle. Then she saw it again in her mind: Hiccup with his future betrothed, gazing wistfully at Astrid and Stefnir from across the Great Hall, full of all their unrealized potential and regret.

"And if you win, what then?" she sighed. "What about _your _engagement?"

"It would be off, of course," Hiccup responded with characteristic disregard for the gravity of his own situation.

"And your dad is just going to be _okay_ with it?"

Hiccup snorted. "Cancelling an arrangement that doesn't even exist yet? I think he'll get over it."

His mind was made up, and Astrid could sense the futility of her concerns. She was being swept up again, but it was not in the tide of Stefnir's pride and arrogance, for once. She was being carried along in Hiccup's recklessness and sense of justice. But he had her heart. He safeguarded her sanity, and he was prepared to gamble it all on the chance he _might_ be able to win the rights to her, legally. Indisputably. All while overlooking the consequences of a loss.

"Hiccup…I can't ask you to do this for me," she insisted. "I can't ask you to fight a man like Stefnir."

"Then I suppose it's a good thing you're not asking me. This is something I decided to do on my own." And he was much too casual about it, she decided.

"First _blood_, Hiccup—and if you think, for one moment, someone like Stefnir would stop there—!"

"I know. He's going to try to beat all future fight out of me, for good," Hiccup said, pulling her closer, wrapping her in an embrace that was meant to be reassuring. It was not. "So, I'll just outsmart him."

Astrid grimaced, balling her hands into fists on his chest. "_Don't_ do that! Don't downplay this and make it sound so damn easy."

"Nothing in might life worth fighting for has ever been easy: Toothless, you—"

She rolled her eyes, and snapped back with sarcasm he could be proud of. "Oh. Thank you, for comparing me to your dragon."

"That's the highest praise I can give," he replied, smiling that plucky grin, rife with delusional optimism.

"You're such a—"

He silenced her with a perfectly timed and heartfelt, "I can't let him have you, Astrid…I just can't…"

And their lips were crashing together; and Astrid was furious with herself, far too susceptible to Hiccup's vulnerabilities. Perhaps it was self-serving, because she also benefited from his desire, just like she would be the one to benefit from his clash with Stefnir. She felt selfish, though she did not want any of it; and she was selfish for not _wanting_ any of it—for not wanting to chase the slightest possibility of being free of Stefnir. She wanted Hiccup to herself, and she wanted him unscathed; and unless perpetual unhappiness was the answer, she could not have it both ways.

They turned around, so she was the one backed up the table. She gasped, soft and wanton, as Hiccup's lips found her neck. Her hands grasped his belt, always escalating things. She was shameless as she seized him by the tunic, dragging him down with her as she fell back against the table. He went willingly, deftly undoing his belt the rest of the way, and Astrid figured she needed to enjoy him while he was still breathing.


	10. Chapter 10

"You're up early." Gobber narrowed his eyes as he hobbled into the smithy. "It's not like you to be working before the Terrors sing." He leaned against a workbench. "Are you sick?"

Hiccup shook his head, grogginess holding fast. His brain was fuzzy and body, sluggish. His eyes itched with protest, urging him to go back to bed. The breaking dawn and the cool, misty morning were meant to be enjoyed indoors, fast asleep under a layer of warm furs, with Sharpshot curled up against him. Not even Toothless roused him so early; but Hiccup had a purpose in that shop that kept him from dropping his head onto his workbench and dozing off again.

"No. I just have a personal p-project," he yawned. "With all the saddle orders to finish up this week, I figured I needed to do this on my own time."

He rubbed his eyes, brows knitted together as he tried to make sense of the plans he had sketched the night before when he had been more lucid. After his rendezvous with Astrid in the archives, he had hurried home with a burning idea—a way to win; a way to have the upper hand in his eventual fight with Stefnir Svenson; a way to, well, _not die_. Or, so he hoped.

Charcoal had moved across blank parchment with conviction, cheered on the by flickering candle. Toothless had been by Hiccup's side, head on his lap as he sketched out his victory. Hiccup had been in his element, so clever, so confident so…

Idiotic, maybe.

In the dim morning light, he scanned over the plans with new doubt.

"Dragon Blade?" Gobber mused, peering over his shoulder, suddenly much too close.

Hiccup jumped, resisting the urge to throw his arms over his work. The older man had already seen it, and it was not like his mentor was not already used to his more bizarre schemes. Hiccup was no stranger to skepticism, with his penchant for creating remarkable inventions out of the most impractical of ideas.

Gobber scoffed. "What could you possibly need a sword for? Besides, we've got a whole shop full of 'em, if you felt the need to endanger life and remaining limb." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the weapon's display, an assortment of untouched swords and axes, in less demand in recent years than dragon-related wares.

"I need _this _sword, Gobber. I can't…I can't exactly explain _why,_ right now," Hiccup drummed his fingers against his work station, "but it's important."

The older Viking waved dismissively, in a manner that Hiccup knew all too well.

"I can't see the use in a flaming sword when you've got a _dragon_, but as long as you get the rest of your work done, I can't complain what daft project you do in your free time. It's less than a week 'til the Selection." Gobber brandished a thick finger at his apprentice. "Don't let me catch you slacking!"

"Not slacking," Hiccup muttered. "More like sitting here, hopelessly lost." He glanced over his plans one more time, scratching his head. "Now, _how_ am I going to apply the Monstrous Nightmare saliva?" He stood up and made his way for the iron ore.

* * *

Astrid laid her head on Hiccup's shoulder. They were in the cove under the blanket of night, and their dragons were sentinels, guarding their privacy. Crawling through Hiccup's window had never been wise, trying not to step too heavily or moan too loudly. Once had been daring enough, that first time. Seeking him out as often as she did now was just stupid. That night, outdoors, only the moon spied on them, luminous in the sky and sparkling over the pond water, neutral and silent.

They had been lucky over the past week, not yet caught, not yet arousing too much suspicion. Stefnir still strutted about with his arm around Astrid like he had won some great prize—like she was his trophy to wave over everyone else. He held her tighter if Hiccup was anywhere around. She hated the way Stefnir's undesirable traits grew more and more prominent as her relationship with Hiccup became more comfortable.

She fooled herself into believing that the outcome of the _holmgang_ had already been decided and that she was free of her arranged marriage because it was easier. She did not want to dwell on what was a more likely reality to come: Stefnir defeating Hiccup, winning her officially and holding it against her the rest of their miserable, married lives. She could sleep dreaming that fool's dream, pretending Hiccup's victory was a sure thing, and that they were simply making good on his winnings early. Believing it would be so made everything between them permissible, and she could forget.

Sitting with her lover on the cool grass felt right, tracing parallel to his inseam with her fingertips. She could laugh with Hiccup, saying whatever stupid thing came to her mind that she might bite back in her Stefnir's presence for fear of his judgment. No quip or stumbled punchline fell too flat with Hiccup. She could not remember the last time she had joked around with her future husband, so carefree.

She sat up, running her hand through his hair, which was missing a crucial piece of ornamentation.

"Handsome," she crooned, and Hiccup smiled as she twisted two braids into his hair.

Once a sad excuse to touch him, the small plaits had become enduring symbol of her affection. In public, they were a sort of claim to him, their true significance unbeknownst to anyone else. She never let him go too long without one, and though he rolled his eyes, he sat patient and still while she played with his hair.

"Thank you, Astrid," he said, gently tugging at the braids. "What would I do without you?"

She nudged him. "Not look half as stylish, for one thing."

"Oh, well,_ that's_ what matters."

He kissed her forehead and those dormant butterflies in her stomach exploded to life. She felt feminine, girlish; and it was alright as long as she still could grasp him by the tunic or the back of the head, pulling him in for a decisive lip lock in which she had all the control. Theirs was a relationship of give and take; a mutually beneficial dance between lovers. Hiccup surrendered to her as often as he advanced.

Things had been frantic those first few nights together: a bit of talk preceded the passionate entwining of their bodies in the dark, on more than one occasion. Time had been running out then, the inevitable wedding approaching that would drive a wedge between them they could not circumvent, save for the occasional desperate tryst when the nights grew too lonely and loving another's body grew too intolerable. That had driven Astrid into Hiccup's arms, his bed, with the fear their illicit affair would soon be expired.

But, they had a solution now, however improbable.

Hiccup's hand was on her waist, innocent and unmoving. Astrid crushed their lips together with less frequency in recent days, savoring the languid kissing instead. She did not know exactly how long they had been in the cove, just talking, being together; filling in the missing pieces before things escalated any further that night, as they were bound to.

Their dragons frolicked and it all seemed too comfortable, too relaxed. Astrid picked at her fingernails absentmindedly. There as a nagging fear in the corner of her mind too loud to ignore, even as she tried to muffle it with false, newfound hope**.**

"Hiccup…the Selection is tomorrow, and the wedding is a few days after that." She took his hand in hers, massaging over his knuckles, appreciating all the subtle details of his skin—contours and textures that made him tangible beyond the passing fantasies of adolescent desire. Details to hold onto. "You _still_ haven't challenged Stefnir to the _holmgang_."

He sighed heavily and nodded, fingers curling around her hand with an acknowledging squeeze. "I intend to after the Selection. The kids and their families deserve the village's full attention tomorrow. I don't want to take away from that. It's about them, not about us, nor him."

"Hiccup…" she frowned, staring at the grass. "What are you _doing_ about it, though? It's not enough to challenge Stef and hope for the best."

Hiccup leaned back on one hand, voice upbeat. "I have something I'm working on. I've been up early every morning. It's going to give me the advantage." His eyes had that gleam—the one that always heralded a stroke of brilliance, bordering on insanity.

"What is it?"

Hiccup pursed his lips, tilting his head one way then the other. "I think it's better if you don't know. Think of is as, um…plausible deniability!"

Astrid wrinkled her nose, yanking her hand from his. "Hiccup—"

He reached for her again, but she folded her arms, squaring her jaw. Her shoulders hunched, and his smile did little to reassure her.

"Don't worry, Astrid. I think I've got a real shot." He captured the end of her braid in his palm, stroking it with his fingers. She could not look at him though, and betray her doubt, but he dropped his hand anyway. He frowned. "You don't think so."

"It's not that I think you can't do it," she clarified, fiddling with his bangs until he jerked away. She dragged her hand over her face. "Your methods are…unconventional. But this is combat, Hiccup. Clashing swords that you can't just…think your way out of." She gripped his knee like a vice, leaning in until their eyes met. "You're actually going to have to cross blades with him, and Stef…he's brutal."

"I intend to challenge him to a fight. I'm not going to talk him into surrender, or use Toothless, or anything beyond what is acceptable by the terms of the _holmgang_. If I'm going to save you from him, then it has to be fair. It can't be anything that breaks the rules or can later be contested; or we'll end up right where we started. One weapon. One shield. That is what's allowed, and that's what I'm going to use." He paused for a beat, then his hand covered hers, warm and comforting. "With, y'know…my particular flair."

She sighed. "Okay, but what does that even _mean_?"

He shrugged and she growled, but the way he brushed his fingertips along her arm tempted her forgiveness. In her foresight, she had brought a woolen blanket to their pre-arranged meeting, and she felt they should put it to use. More pretending, more assumptions things would end in their favor. But delusions could be pleasant for a time.

* * *

Vibrant banners waved in the steady breeze, adorned with images of dragons no longer slain, but ridden by Vikings. There was not an inch of the village untouched by the enticing aroma of food. The scent of slow-roasted meats and pies wafted from simmering cauldrons and food stands. The air was thick and fragrant with fresh produce and delectable concoctions, undercut by the bitter, heady scent of copious amounts of ale. Berk hummed with excited chatter and dragons' roars. Children hurried about, practically underfoot, paying no heed to the neatness of their attire as they wrestled and played.

The Selection was a formal occasion, like Snoggletog or Winter Nights, though much newer by comparison. Traditions had to start somewhere, and dragons had become an integral part of their tribe. Stoick's decided to create a significant celebration with dragons as its focus. Any excuse to throw a festival, get drunk, and be merry, went over well the rest of the village, boosting morale. There had been no contest to a dragon-themed festival.

For two years, the Selection had been a highly anticipated event: a rite of passage for children turning ten. That had been the arbitrary age agreed upon by Hiccup, his father, and the council, for owning a dragon. They had all agreed it was impractical for younger children to select and ride dragons on a whim—something that required skill and some measure of maturity—though the Thorston Twins were the exception to the rule. Only two years in practice, the Selection had been easily and widely accepted as a defining moment in any young Hooligan's life, as if it had always been so. To be old enough to own and care for one's own dragon was monumental, marking a transition into a more responsible age. The event also served the dual purpose of keeping an accurate census—which families owned which dragons. The Selection was treated with as much reverence as their unruly village could muster.

Hiccup wrapped a fox-fur cloak around his shoulders, pinning it in place with a silver broach. He had designed the ornament himself, sporting the Strike Class emblem he had adopted as his own personal sigil. His dark charcoal-colored tunic was trimmed with silver silk samite, embroidered with knotwork at the neck, sleeves, and hem. His belt was thick and snug around his waist, tooled with stylized dragons woven into more intricate patterns on leather that fed into an ornate buckle—all a pretentious display of his wealth and status that was somehow excusable under the guise of formality. On his wrists were identical bracers of woven and studded leather. He looked every bit the son of a Viking chief; and he sighed, picking up Sharpshot and setting the dragon on his shoulder, resigned to playing his part of chief-in-training for the day.

The Terrible Terror scurried about on his upper back, wrapping his tail around him for added balance. How fortunate Sharpshot was, unconcerned with meticulous bathing and grooming at first light, or dressing himself up in display of his power—assuming he had any. Hiccup did not know if the Berk dragons had their own social hierarchy in the absence of the Red Death.

"Come on, bud," he said, stroking along Toothless's jaw to rouse the dragon from where he had been basking in the sunlight.

The Night Fury cocked his large to the side, studying Hiccup's appearance with uncertain eyes.

"Yeah, it's as uncomfortable as it looks." Hiccup did an odd sort of shimmy as he readjusted the belt around his midriff. "Let's go."

Everyone was filing toward the old arena, re-purposed as a hub for dragon racing and outdoor merriment. The densely packed throngs of Vikings and dragons was not nearly as pungent it normally was, thanks to the standard etiquette of bathing before important events. The twins did not seem all that thrilled, scratching themselves where their clean clothes chafed. They wore no furs, but instead were covered in an abundance of decent leather garb, still looking quite nice, and positively sullen about it. They nodded as Hiccup walked by, then spit into their hands and scrubbed smudges from each other's helmets.

Up ahead, Stoick the Vast stood, proud and well-armored, by his chiseled throne overlooking the old kill ring where dragons used to bleed. That day, only happiness would abound as wide-eyed children finally had dragons to call their own; one step closer to being considered a fully actualized Hooligan.

Hiccup climbed on Toothless, Sharpshot sinking his claws in deeper to the fur that cushioned him. People scattered to give the Night Fury room without a hitch in their conversations.

Hiccup flew up to join the chief, whose excess of fine armor and sumptuous fabrics made him look prepared to do battle with Thor himself. If possible, the man was more intimidating than usual, even with the ornate beads woven into his substantial beard. Hiccup was certain his regal father could give the god of thunder a good, long fight. Then, they'd probably sit down for a drink and chortle over it, swapping war stories.

Yes. That seemed completely plausible.

"Dad," Hiccup greeted, dismounting Toothless. Sharpshot scurried down his chest until he cradled the Terror in his arms.

"Ah, Hiccup!" the chief exclaimed, patting him hard on the back and Hiccup's knees almost buckled. "You look you could be chief."

Hiccup laughed dryly, forcing a well-practice, appeasing smile. "Thanks, dad. I guess that's kind of the point." He looked down at the crowd of children, gathered in the arena and jittery with excitement. They gazed around at the swelling crowd, waving to loved ones and friends. Hiccup envied them, wondering what it might have been like if he had gotten to choose Toothless, his father looking on with approval. None of the secrets. None of the lies.

"You and me, creating traditions fer this village that will endure for generations." Stoick beamed at him.

"Mmn, yeah. Tradition. I'm…I'm all about it," Hiccup muttered.

Stoick chortled again, clapping Hiccup's back. Then the chief strode forward with his arms outstretched. His voice was booming, demanding attention in a way Hiccup doubted he ever could. The chatter died down, and Hiccup placed Sharpshot back up on his shoulders, standing beside his father like a good and proper heir. He was flanked by Toothless while his father still had no dragon counterpart. Still, in the presence of his tribesmen with all of their dragons, the chief was in high spirits, feeding off the energy of a happy village. Stoick gave a nice speech about youth, responsibility, and the companionship of dragons. His word were powerful, as most all of his speeches were, but Hiccup was busy scanning the crowd to listen too closely to what his father said.

To the right of the chief stood the Jorgensons. Snotlout and Spitelout wore heavy black cloaks of fur-lined wool held in place by decorative cloak chains. Their bracers and armbands were flamboyant compared to their normal dress; and it would have been laughable how identical they looked, had his uncle not cast him a scrutinizing glare. Further down the line were other members of his father's council, including the Hoffersons. Specifically, Astrid; the only face Hiccup cared about.

She was beautiful in all-white furs, gilded threads, and simple beading. Her hair was braided over one shoulder, neat and elegant, with tiny plaits feeding into a larger one. How he wanted to touch it, unwind it, and feel it slip between his fingers. But there was a frown on her face marring the otherwise stunning vision she was. She had impeccable posture in a long azure shift, overlain with a neutral apron-skirt, fastened above each breast with a broach. A simple belt rested at her hips, cinched tight on her narrow frame and hanging loose past the buckle. Hiccup had never seen her dressed so affluently, but he suspected it was a perk of being promised to a wealthy merchant family. Indeed, Stefnir stood beside her in garb so flashy it had to be intentional.

Hiccup watched them, fists clenched. Astrid kept staring straight ahead, hands clasped in front of her has Stefnir held her close with a hand on her waist.

The rest of their tribesmen cheered as Gobber opened one of the old stalls that had once served as Hookfang's prison. Instead of a flaming Nightmare, however, young dragons ambled out into the light. There were three of each of Berk's resident species: Nadders, Nightmares, Gronckles, and Zipplebacks. Twelve in all to choose from, for the handful of kids fidgeting with anticipation. The young dragons, just nearing their adolescence, had been handpicked by Fishlegs, who had nearly hyperventilated when Hiccup had passed him the honor that year.

Gobber corralled the dragons into as neat a group as he could, appearing to be the only soul in the village who did not take the formality of the event seriously—then again, his tunic looked like it had been washed, free of stains, and perhaps that was as much as anyone could hope for.

Stoick uttered a prayer aloud, asking the Allfather and the goddess of youth, Ithunn, to guide the children and shine wisdom upon them as they selected their dragons.

There were more dragons than there were children, and inevitably some dragons would be ushered back to the stables without riders. After a time, they returned to the wilderness beholden to no one, with nothing in the village to tether them. But new bonds were formed between the little Vikings and the dragons they selected, genuine, deep, and beautiful. When the Selection was first suggested, Hiccup had been a strong supporter of it for that very reason. He knew what it was like to make a real connection with a dragon, and he thought a festival showcasing that bond was genius on his father's part. He wanted every young Hooligan to one day have that same opportunity.

Even Reyr Svenson.

The kid was an innocent, and so Hiccup did not harbor any ill will toward him; but he did roll his eyes when Reyr chose a Monstrous Nightmare. Everyone in the Svenson clan owned one, and dragon preference seemed to run in families. The breed spoke clearly of their values and the attributes they cherished. Hiccup clapped along with everyone else, shaking his head as the rest of the Svenson clan whopped and hollered loudly.

And then, it was over. Six children has chosen their dragon companions. The actual ceremony had lasted the span of half an hour, maybe, with all the pomp and circumstance included. The process of choosing the new dragons was always short, but that did not mean the festivities were to end. If anything, it was a very pleasant excuse for the necessity of the following revels. The race came next, and Hiccup saw Fishlegs and the Twins muscling their way into the arena. Snotlout had disappeared from his father's side as well, and Hiccup's heart began to hammer with gathering adrenaline. He and his friends were to do what they did best: kick ass at riding dragons.

The spectators thinned in the interim as the racers readied themselves, undoubtedly to line up for tankards of ale and cider to enjoy during the race.

Hiccup plucked Sharpshot from his shoulders and set him on the ground, and the Terrible Terror immediately became interested in a nearby pack of his scaly peers, hurrying off.

"Ready Toothless?" Hiccup asked, patting the Night Fury's thick neck.

The dragon warbled and nudged him as if to say, 'I've only been waiting all damned day!'

* * *

Astrid squeezed between bodies, careful not to tread on the hem of a nice dress, or jostle loose anyone's cloak pin. Stormfly obediently stayed put, reserving her premium seat.

"Excuse me. Excuse me. Sorry!" she repeated inching closer to the arena where her betrothed and her lover prepped for the race in too close a proximity. They had their backs turned to one another, and though it was midsummer, it an unnaturally cool air blew between them.

"Astrid!" Stefnir chimed, pausing from adjusting Harbinger's saddle.

His smile was expectant, and she strode over to him with a sidelong glance at Hiccup, but he was busy with Toothless. She tore her eyes away from him for only a moment, to flash Stefnir a dutiful smile as he swept her into his arms. She cocked her head at the last second, and his lips brushed her cheek.

"Good luck," she told him, but there was no sincerity behind it.

"I won't need it," he replied, and Astrid suppressed the urge to laugh. His hands were on her waist, eyes traveling over her with an uncomfortable intensity. She looked up at her dragon, peering down through the chains with a soft croon. "Gods, you are beautiful."

Stefnir was too loud, and Astrid noticed Hiccup tense, much to her intended's smug satisfaction.

"Yes, well, I appreciate all the gifts, but I'm glad this outfit isn't a regular thing. It's really uncomfortable." She shifted the heavy fur stole on her shoulders.

"That's a shame. It suits you."

Astrid scoffed, examining the long, cumbersome dress. "No, it doesn't. I'd much rather have my tunic and my leggings and my—"

"You'll get used to it," he interrupted, caressing the side of her face. He just grinned. "There's more of this finery to come, once we're married."

Astrid recoiled, face scrunched. "It's not me."

"It will be."

He leaned in to kiss her again and she wiggled free from his grasp, blurting out the only escape she could think of. "I need to talk to Hiccup."

Stefnir scowled, glancing up at the other young man. He reached out and sized Astrid's wrist, tight and unyielding. "_Why?"_ he demanded.

**Her eyes went ice cold, lip curling, and Stefnir puffed up. It might have startled and intimidated her, had she any measure of respect left for him. She could not maintain eye contact. A confession was waiting on her tongue while her head spun another lie. Her lips could claim one truth, but she was certain her eyes spoke another. There was a pull, an inescapable tether between her and Hiccup, and it grew shorter the deeper she fell for him. She felt his presence behind her like the radiant heat of a dragon's flame. Stefnir indignation barely registered with her, and that false sense of security flared up again. It was a brazen and presumptuous affront to her betrothed when she backed away with a nonchalant shrug of her fur-covered shoulders.**

"Wedding details," she answered, and he took a step toward her, "about the ceremonial sword he's forging for us."

"_I'm_ handling that," he declared. He brandished a finger in Hiccup's direction. "There's no reason for you to talk to him about it."

From the corner of her eye, Astrid saw her lover drop his arms by his side. He turned toward them, though she could not read his expression in her periphery.

"You need to focus on the race for now," she asserted. "I'll worry about the sword and you…you just keep thinking up that winning strategy." She turned her back on him just as he was about to protest. "I'll be up there, cheering you on!"

A haphazard wave was all the less than enthusiastic support she could muster. She did not have to glance back to feel his gaze boring into her. His leer kept her on a proverbial short leash.

She ambled toward Hiccup, not too slow and not too desperate.

"Smooth," Hiccup murmured.

He turned back to Toothless and Astrid sidled up to him. The smirk on her face mirrored his. She wondered how much Stefnir could read in their body language from behind.

"I had to get away. He's had a death-grip on me all morning." Astrid whispered, patting Toothless when he nudged her affectionately. She felt the back of her prickle, as if Stefnir's scrutiny was the breeze bringing goosebumps to her skin.

Hiccup had the foresight not to glance her over as he replied, "Because you look incredible."

Astrid's face split into a broad grin. Stefnir had told her the same thing, but it was insulting coming from him, and possessive. Even though she felt ridiculous and costumed, a simple compliment from Hiccup had unusual sway over her self-image.

"No more than you do, Hiccup."

And he was gorgeous, really; never a word she thought would ever apply to him. He was regularly handsome, of course, in his lanky, unique, oddball way. But that fur cloak on him, the silk trim, and the dark gray clothes; it all worked together. The fine, detailed leather did not hurt, either. He looked every bit the chief Astrid believed he would become; and it would be utterly dishonest for her to deny it was a turn on. He smiled, bright and obvious, and that gap between his front teeth just added to it all, ridiculously endearing.

"Oh, but you're the prettiest," he teased.

They laughed, tugging at each other's luxurious, but uncharacteristic attire.

"Having a nice chat?" Stefnir's voice was low and close, making the two of them jump.

Hiccup rebounded first, standing taller and clenching his fists. "We _were_."

Stefnir rounded on him, chest swelling again but Hiccup did not balk. The older man was less than a wild dragon, and Hiccup had an almost unshakable resolve when convinced he was in the right. It did not matter he and Astrid were having an affair. To Hiccup, it was a _justifiable_ affair. In his mind, he and Stefnir were already set to fight, though nothing had been declared—but Hiccup wanted it done, and Thor damn anyone who tried to talk him down from a ledge he so ardently wished to jump from.

"What, ah, _details_ have the two of you worked out?" Stefnir asked him.

Hiccup easily lied, "Astrid was just suggesting I should wrap the hilt of your matrimonial sword in fine leather. I,uh…I happen to agree with her."

"Do you now?" Stefnir took a step forward.

Hiccup stood his ground, like he did with dragons, with Alvin, and with Dagur. He was his sharpest and the most cunning in such moments; his witty tongue barbed with sarcasm and thinly-veiled insults.

He said, "Yes. I support her ideas. She comes up with plenty good ones. But…I'm sure _you_ would know all about that since you're so close and everything.".

"And what would you know about it? Or her ideas? Or anything?" Stefnir growled.

"A fair amount. I care about Astrid—about my…friends."

"Oh? I suppose that's why you've been so distant over the past couple years?"

Hiccup clenched his jaw, muscle twitching. "I had my reasons."

"Well, your friendship is a bit worn."

Hiccup actually stepped forward—a half-step, to be exact, but still an advance. "_Really?_ Did she tell you that herself or did you just decide that for her, like you do for everything else?"

Stefnir opened his mouth, baring his teeth with a gathering derision—but a horn cut him off. One long, loud blaring note to signal the start of the race, beckoning spectators back to the arena. Gobber limped into the ring, carrying one large basket under his good arm, marked with a red rim, and kicking the other along the ground for the opposing, green team.

"Racers! Mount your dragons!" he instructed, setting the baskets in the center of the ring. "Astrid, you should get going now."

She nodded, lingering a moment longer while Hiccup and Stefnir stared each other down with palpable contempt. They stripped off their fur cloaks and turned back to their dragons. Hiccup folded his fur and set it neatly on the ground, as did Stefnir and Snotlout.

"Astrid," Hiccup mumbled under his breath, grasping her hand. She felt something cold and metallic squashed between their palms. He nodded then let go of her , climbing on Toothless.

Her fingers curled over the object in her hand, mapping the Strike Class emblem by feel alone. She smiled, clasping her other hand over it before sauntering back to her future husband.

"Good luck, Stef," she said in what she hoped was a convincing simper. "I'll be cheering for you."

He scowled down at her from where he sat, poised atop Harbinger. "Will you?"

Astrid kept walking, squeezing Hiccup's broach tighter.

* * *

"Oh, come _on!_ That isn't legal!" Spitelout shouted, gesturing at a member of the green team, whose Deadly Nadder had nearly unseated Snotlout with a low-hanging claw.

Lap after lap had seen the same aggression. Dragon racing was not a soft and well-mannered sport, but there had been far more contact that was necessary, or typical. Meatlug had been shoulder-checked by Harbinger, sending her spiraling into a nearby house. She had recovered, but the roof had not. At one point, they had to freeze the match so Hiccup could intervene in a midair fight between Barf and Belch and the other team's Nadder. But perhaps the greatest ugliness was festering beneath the surface of a well-played game.

Toothless dove and swerve, both to snatch sheep for points and to avoid the tawny Nightmare, tailing him relentlessly. The Night Fury pulled off a spectacular grab, skimming the grass, only to climb into a sudden block by Harbinger. Stefnir grinned down at Hiccup, smug.

"Tuff!" Hiccup shouted and Toothless rolled free of the Nightmare. The sheep was airborne, bleating as it was thrown to the twins.

"The wool is ours!" Tuffnut cried dramatically.

Legs locked around Barf's neck, Ruffnut swung from her saddle and caught the sheep, hanging inverted. "The wool is ours!" she repeated.

Another opposing Nightmare was on them immediately, but the Zippleback was too close to the basket. He glided into the arena and Ruffnut sank the sheep in their goal with minimal effort. Gobber marked another point on the wall.

The team captains continued into the next lap, and Toothless shrieked in annoyance at Harbinger's uncomfortably close flying. Astrid could not make out their riders' faces, only the furious beating of their dragons' wings. Astrid glanced down the line. Stoick was sitting on his throne, squirming anxiously with a heavy, intense brow. Beside him, Spitelout was pacing, cheeks puffing with ire. All around her, Hoffersons and Svensons clapped for Stefnir and the green team. She was a silent supporter of the red team, deep in hostile territory.

"Come on, Hiccup," she whispered to herself, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She wanted to be in it; she would have Stefnir off him in a heartbeat—but she was too precious; too lovely and soon to be wed; too valuable to participate in a contact sport just before her wedding.

The spectators ducked, hands over their heads, as Toothless and Harbringer flew by, low and fast. They were streaks in the midday sky, powerful and vicious. Astrid clutched her belt where she had tucked the Strike Class broach for safe keeping. The wind off the dragons blew her hair and clothes about. As she and the other onlookers straightened up, she heard the chief bellow, "Get 'em, son!"

Stoick's encouragement was drowned in tumultuous cheers, people rooting for one team or the other. A horn blew, the black sheep was in play; and Astrid's excitement bubbled up to an unbearable volume.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and cried out, "Finish this, babe!" And there was only one person who really knew to whom she called—the one person it was meant for, and the one person who mattered.

The crowd roared as Fishlegs emerged from between two buildings, cradling the black sheep in his thick arms. His eyes were wide and anxious. He kept glancing back at the dragon riders in pursuit. The other team's Nadder and Monstrous Nightmare tore after him, and poor Meatlug growled with the strenuous flapping of her small wings. She looked pained, flying as fast as a Gronckle could; and perhaps faster than was advisable. Hookfang glided in alongside her.

"Fishlegs!" Snotlout shouted, holding up his hands.

The sheep was lobbed and he caught it, just in time for the other team to slam into Meatlug in a tangle of tails and wings.

The poor sheep struggled, but Snotlout had an unyielding grip. Hookfang veered away from the trailing dragons, flying low on the final lap to the baskets. Toothless dove to give him cover. Harbinger followed.

"TAKE IT TO THE BASKET, SNOTLOUT!" Spitelout pumped his fist into the air, looking like he might explode from the tension. The score was green-six to red-four, and the black sheep would clinch victory for Hiccup's team.

Stoick was on his feet as well, all composure forgotten. He gestured to the arena as if it could make the young man fly any faster. "Go! _GO!_"

Hookfang, Toothless, and Harbinger, were out in front. Stefnir flew his dragon in a tight loop, attempting to steal the sheep from above, but Toothless cut in between them. Harbringer came to a dead stop, smacked in the face by the Night Fury's tail as he passed. The majority of the crowd applauded, including the chief and Spitelout, practically dancing on the spot like giddy children. The rest of the spectators booed and hissed.

Harbinger recovered, streaking after Hookfang. Large claws seized the red Nightmare's tail, and Snotlout just barely kept himself from being thrown from his dragon from the abrupt stop.

"Foul! FOUL!" Spitelout bellowed, stomping his foot. Astrid could see the bulging of his neck veins from where she stood.

But there were no such thing as fouls in the game. The only rules in dragon racing were to drop sheep into a designated basket, and the black sheep was worth ten points. Everything else was legal.

Stefnir leaped onto Hookfang's tail, scrambling along the dragon's back toward Snotlout. Harbinger firmly held onto the other Nightmare. No matter how desperately Hookfang flapped his mighty wings, he could not move forward. He would not ignite, nor retaliate; there was an innocent Viking on his back, Snotlout not necessarily included in the tally.

"You _dirty_—! HICCUP!" Snotlout stood, wobbling precariously and threw the black sheep as far he could.

The animal fell in a graceful arc, but Toothless was already diving for it. He was a blurred shadow while Stefnir screamed,"NO!"

Then Hiccup had the black sheep, and his Night Fury was too fast and unchecked. He soared into the arena while the opposing team could only watched and swear. The resulting screams of red team supporters was deafening, and Astrid rubbed the lump in her belt, fighting back a grin.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, strong and bracing.

"It's alright, Astrid. It was a close game. Stefnir played hard," her father said.

"I should go see him. Show him support," she said, slipping away.

Only when she was lost among the gleeful crowd, did she finally let out a sharp laugh, unheard by anyone else.

* * *

"Seriously! What _was_ that?" Snotlout growled. "Did you see how that asshole just attacked Hookfang?"

"I know, right? Or how about the way he kept running into Meatlug?" Fishlegs replied, turning to hug his Gronckle.

"None of that is against the rules," Hiccup told them as they weaved their way through the village. The Great Hall was their destination. Celebratory rounds of ale and mead were warranted.

Berk was a dense pack of Vikings to weave through. Everyone was shopping or tending to their own dragons. The few ten-year-olds from the Selection ceremony were congratulated on their new dragons, and on being a Hooligan.

"Well, it would be against the rules…if there _were_ any rules," Ruffnut droned.

She ducked, nearly getting backhanded by the flailing limbs of drunken Vikings in boisterous song.

"I prefer to sort of just 'wing' it," Tuffnut said, shrugging.

"Well, at least we won. That's a good thing." Hiccup replied. "They played dirty, so I'm glad we beat them."

He waved as a family called out their thanks for the child's saddle he built. The little girl had been one of the selectees, and she was learning how to properly strap a saddle to her Gronckle.

"Yeah. It's only entertaining if _we're_ the ones playing dirty!" Ruffnut snickered, elbowing him with a wink.

Hiccup rolled his eyes. Sometimes it was ambiguous whether or not she was making passes at him, and he thought it best not to ask.

"Ugh! This leather freakin' chafes!" Tuffnut groaned suddenly, scratching his privates with vigor.

Hiccup glanced down at his own formal attire, mildly rumpled from the game. His fur cloak was draped over his arm. Astrid still had his broach, but she had been intercepted by Stefnir after the game, steered away before she could speak with him. She had glanced apologetically over her shoulder as she was marched back out of the arena, and Hiccup could only watch.

They climbed the steps to the Great Hall, followed by their dragons. Their supporters clapped and whooped as they sauntered through the double doors. Hiccup spotted his father, beaming proudly and raising his mug. Hiccup smirked and rubbed the back of his neck, always feeling small and inadequate under his father's lofty expectations and abundant praise. Snotlout, however, adopted an obvious swagger. Fishlegs stood straighter, reflecting the glow of their tribe's adoration. Tuffnut was more interested in scoping out the nearest mug of ale he could get his hands on. Ruffnut, well…Hiccup did not know who she was making those heavy-lidded eyes at, but he was glad it was not him.

They sat at their usual table and they did not have to ask for drinks before tankards were being shoved into their hands. Particular compliments were lost among the noise: babbling, laughing, and off-key singing. Someone was playing a lute to encourage melodic screeching, and Hiccup tried not to slosh ale onto his lap as hands jovially slapped his back.

He smiled politely. He tipped his mug to his lips to avoid conversation; but through the fans he noticed a commotion, tucked away in the back of the hall. In the shadows and muffled by the surrounding revelry, Stefnir was berating Astrid. He kept grabbing for her, sharp and aggressive, and she kept wrenching free. She snarled something back at him and his fist struck the wall beside her head. Hiccup was on his feet before he even realized it.

He slammed his mug down too forcefully, because Snotlout glanced up at him, bewildered.

"What's with you?" his cousin asked, brow quirked.

"That jar of Hookfang's saliva we talked about?" Hiccup led.

"Yeaaah…?" Snotlout hesitantly followed.

"I'm going to need it as soon as possible."

Snotlout scoffed. "You're crazy, but whatever." He returned to his drink.

Hiccup was excusing himself from the table, crossing the hall with tunnel vision. A few people tried to get his attention, but the only thing he heard was the distant argument between his lover and her husband-to-be. Every blow of Stefnir's hand against the wall hurried Hiccup's pace. Toothless followed, sensing his disquiet; and seeing the frustration on Astrid's face tempted Hiccup to order a plasma blast. He was driven by his burning righteousness, imagining punching Stefnir with a satisfaction and lust for violence that would be uncharacteristic under any other circumstances. He had not intended for such an early confrontation; he was not going to challenge the other man until the morning. But Stefnir's violent hands were too close to Astrid and she was pushing back; and he grew louder, slapping her hands away from him.

Hiccup was out of patience and restraint.

"Stefnir!" he snapped.

Astrid's eye were wide, considering him from where Stefnir had her backed against the wall.

"_You!_" Stefnir snarled. With a flick of his wrist, something hard and metallic hit Hiccup in the chest, glinting in the light from the sconces as it fell to the floor. "What gives you the right?"

Hiccup bent down and picked up his broach, clenching his fist around it. He steeled his gut, feeling the Strike Class sigil digging into his palm.

"I have every right," he replied calmly.

"You hang around like you have chance and it's pathetic. Stop putting ideas in her head! She loves me! She wants to marry _me!_" Stefnir thumbed his own chest emphatically.

"Last I checked a happy marriage is a companionship. Partners—unless I've failed to grasp the concept entirely."

"We are—!"

Hiccup shook his head. "Astrid. Do you love him?"

She hesitated for a beat and Stefnir leaned in, tall and solid. She inched back up the wall until she was at her full height, glaring back at him.

"No," she answered.

He recoiled, fingers trembling as he dragged them over his mouth. His eyes were wild.

"Do you want to marry him?" Hiccup continued.

Astrid was cold as winter ice.

"No," she answered again.

"You…You _lying—_!" he seized her by the front of her apron-skirt, and Toothless growled in response to Hiccup's outrage.

"Take your hands off her, Stefnir!" he demanded. "I challenge you to a _holmgang!_ Until then, the claim to Astrid is under dispute. She's not mine. She's not yours. So don't touch her!"

Astrid flinched as Stefnir snapped the beautiful necklace he had undoubtedly given her with a rough jerk of his hand. Colorful beads scattered on the floor, rolling every which way.

He stalked towards Hiccup, stopping just sort of their chests bumping, like he had done before the race.

He snickered, incredulous, "You really think_ you_ can beat me in a fight?"

"Yes."

Stefnir's nose almost touched his, and his hissed through gritted teeth, "Then I'm going to enjoy watching you bleed."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** I know it's been a small eternity since I've updated this story. Please forgive me. I work in healthcare, aaaaand COVID-19 happened. I'm an "essential worker" so there's that. Not to mention, I suddenly had to homeschool my 4-year-old when all schools closed their doors. Like, I'm sorry, _what?_ Anyway, that's why.

* * *

"Well, I hope you're proud of yourself," Astrid's mother said curtly, stitching the finishing touches to her bridal gown.

Breakfast was cold, prepared early and left to sit before Astrid's mother had roused her that morning. No eye contact had yet been made and the temperature in the house seemed to have dropped with her mother's stiff greeting. The day was not off to a pleasant start, but Astrid found it better than the screaming match of the night before. Word of the _holmgang_ had disseminated throughout the Great Hall by the end of the Selection feast, reaching her parents and in-laws with haste. Stefnir confronted Hiccup one more time, to make a scene and set the date and time of the match. Stares and whispers had followed both families as they left the festivities. Astrid's mother had a sharp, tight grip on her arm, like dragon's talons.

A brutal interrogation followed at the Hofferson dining table that night, where Astrid sat with her hands clasped and eyes fixated on a notch in the wood grain.

"How long has this been going on?"

"What are you thinking?"

"We have a contract! Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Did you really think it would be that easy?"

"_How long?"_

Astrid had tried to answer, only to realize neither her parents, nor Stefnir's, were content to let her speak. So, she sat in silence, eyes downcast as she chewed the inside of her lip, thinking up all manner of biting retorts she would never voice aloud. A thin line of tender flesh around her neck still stung from where Stefnir had ripped the necklace from her throat. A few times she hazarded a glance in his direction, only to be met with his furious, unwavering glare. He said nothing, rooted to a spot by the hearth, watching her with simmering ire.

When she had been dismissed with a wave and a disappointed scowl, she had climbed the stairs to her room with relief. She had torn off her expensive, stifling clothes, discarding them on the floor without a thought.

In nothing but her undergarments, she had collapsed onto her bed and screamed into her pillow. She had punched the headboard a few times for good measure before flopping onto her back, glaring up at the ceiling. Sneaky came to her side, curling up against her. Stormfly, meanwhile, was Thor knew where. Eventually, Astrid's buzzing mind could not out-race her exhaustion...

Then it was morning. The mess was still there, waiting to be tackled anew.

"I never meant to upset anyone," Astrid told her mother, stirring her porridge. "But you _knew_ I never wanted this marriage, either!"

Her mother's meticulous needle kept stitching its denial, weaving it into the beautiful wedding dress that might never be worn, if Astrid got her way.

"It doesn't matter," her mother said. "You have the Svensons all riled up. They were asking if we had planned this; as if we'd do such a dishonorable thing! Our contract with them is binding. It was arranged long ago, and whether or not you want it makes no difference."

"It makes a difference to _me!_" Astrid argued, dropping her spoon into her bowl with a clatter. Her breakfast, untouched. "Dad could break it off. The Svensons could break it off. I don't understand why this stupid marriage is so damn important that it's worth me being miserable for the rest of my life!"

"Ach, I swear, child!" her mother huffed, hands falling to her lap. "You weren't always this rebellious. When we were at war with the dragons, you understood what was expected of you; but now that you kids have peace and freedom, it's filled your head with this foolish independence."

"And that's a bad thing?"

Perhaps it was, for the perfectly obedient daughter she had been groomed to be. Someone who did what was expected, never made a fuss, and was steady and predictable; she was responsible, by everyone else's definition of the word.

"Sometimes, I think all you kids with your dragons feel like you can fly away from your responsibilities, but some day you'll need to marry, or learn a trade. There's not a future in careless racing and dragon academy business," her mother explained, needle coming to life again.

"It's more than that!" Astrid asserted.

Her mother's eyebrows were raised in a haughty arch. "Aye. It's Hiccup, filling your head with the same freedom his doting father allows him."

"I never thought I'd hear you speak ill of the chief," Astrid grumbled, leaning back in her seat, arms crossed.

Her mother puffed up. "I'm speaking the facts! This little infatuation you have is only a passing—!"

A ripple of indignation set Astrid's spine rigid.

"It's_ not_ an infatuation!" she snapped.

"Oh, so you think you love Hiccup, do you? And in a few years' time, where do you think that young 'love' will take you? So sure, are you, that it will still be there, that you're willing to throw away a good, secure future on a gamble?"

Astrid thought of Dragon's Island; and the past few nights in the cove; and the two years of stolen glances: a summary of their relationship in fragments of memory, some better than others. She remembered, with a hot thrill, the way Hiccup moved over her in the dark, his skin warm and damp with a thin sheen of sweat. She would never forget the things he whispered in her ear, breathless and heartfelt in the aftermath, clinging to her like only she could hold him together. There was something deeper there than a mere adolescent fancy. His eyes were always so honest.

"Don't I at least deserve to find out if something good comes of my relationship with him?" Astrid asked, skin tingling with the memory of Hiccup's reverent touch.

"You deserve to be looked after. Stefnir can provide—"

"Hiccup is the next chief! So can he!" Astrid was on her feet.

"This again!" her mother hissed. "He won't win the _holmgang_. You know that as well as I do, so all of this bickering will be pointless You'll still be marrying Stefnir, only now with all this animosity to start off your marriage. Is that what you want fer yourself? I certainly don't want that for you. It's a fine mess you've made for yourself, Astrid. How could you be so selfish? All that boy ever did was be excited to call you his wife. A good match, Stefnir makes; and you're trying to throw it all away for something you don't know will last."

"Selfish?" Astrid scoffed. "Don't pretend like this marriage isn't for more money, or that the Svensons aren't marrying their son to me so they have an 'in' with Stoick's council. I'm being expected to go along with this for everyone else's gain but my own."

"Because you're too determined to be miserable in it! Thousands of women have been in arranged marriages before you. Don't act like you're the first one. Don't act like being happy with Stefnir is impossible. You _know_ the state of your marriage depends on you."

"I tried to be happy because it's what everyone wanted from me—what you all expected; and I _tried_ to do the right thing. I played along for two years, but I can't anymore. I'm so tired. Mom, it's smothering me."

"Have you considered the only thing it's smothering is your childishness?"

Astrid's bit her lip. Stomach empty and heart full of anguish, she strode toward the door, wrenching it open. Sunlight flooded her home.

"I would stay away from Hiccup unless you want to dig a bigger whole for yourself," her mother warned.

Astrid hesitated in the threshold, holding the door open. The distant laughter of children felt like the echo of some other world she could almost remember.

"You know, Hiccup _could_ win," she said.

"When you get back tonight, I'll have you try on your dress one more time," her mother said.

Their argument was punctuated by the front door slamming.

* * *

Hiccup's fingers drummed against his mug, and he watched the water ripple inside; it was the safer option.

"A _holmgang?_" Stoick thundered in disbelief. His shoulders rolled with his anger; irate gesticulating. "You couldn't challenge him to a…a…_dragon race,_ or anything else you're actually good at?"

Scolding and disappointment were nothing new under their roof, but it was never actually Hiccup's intention to disappoint his father, regardless of what the man believed.

Hiccup replied, "I don't think there's any legal weight behind dragon races or who can most accurately recite the Book of Dragons by heart, dad."

His father waved a large hand. "Be serious!"

"I _am_ being serious!" Hiccup held out his hands in a placating gesture. "What about my face right now suggests that I'm not serious? If I was to challenge Stefnir to some kind of dragon-related contest for Astrid, he would undoubtedly say no."

His father glared down at him with from beneath his bushy red eyebrows, flecked now with gray. He was all the more intimidating in the low light. Shadows and the glow of the hearth played across his aging face, emphasizing dark, deep lines. Then he exhaled, long and exasperated. He pulled out the chair across the table from where Hiccup sat. The wooden legs scraped pointedly over the floor. The chief sat down with armor clinking and leather rasping. He rubbed his temples with thick fingers, and Hiccup was certain he was responsible for at least half of Stoick's wrinkles and wiry strands of gray.

"Hiccup…" his father murmured, "you couldn't, for once, leave well enough alone?"

"I…She's…She doesn't want to marry him." Hiccup glanced back down at his mug, sloshing its contents. "What other recourse is there?"

"You let _them_ handle it! It is _their_ matter to sort out!" His father thrust his arm toward the front door, emphatically. "And then you get married to Hertha, as discussed."

Hiccup quirked an eyebrow. "And that way I get to be unhappy, too? Miserable matrimony all around?"

His father's large hand slapped against the table, rattling his plate. "You were fine with it a week ago!"

"No, I wasn't actually," Hiccup mumbled. "That was before I knew a _holmgang_ was a real thing. If it wasn't, I…I don't know. You'd have your way, probably. The Svensons would have their way; because my hands would legally be tied. But knowing the _holmgang_ is a real, legitimate solution? I couldn't be compliant after that, dad. I care about Astrid. I want to see her happy."

"It's not _just_ freeing her from her marriage Stefnir, son." Stoick's hand was a knife, cutting through the air with each syllable that followed. "If you win, the implication is that she's _yours_."

"I…I know," he replied. His eyes traveled up to meet his father slowly. He hands tightened around his mug with a nervous jolt to the gut. "That's..."

He swallowed hard, his mind besieged with images of Astrid sprawled naked beneath him. Her hair was strewn around her head like a haphazard pillow and her eyes were closed as she sighed out his name.

_His_ _name._ Never before had he ever been so pleased to hear it. All the times he had fantasized about it fell short of Astrid's real passionate whispers in his ear. She was already his, every bit as much as he was already hers. He had always been hers, really. To claim any different would be a sad delusion.

Stoick's searched his son's face in the flickering light. Hiccup had never been a great liar. He winced as his father's eyes widened in realization and horror.

"No," the chief's voice was a plea; it morphed into a threat. "Tell me you didn't…"

And there was no need to feign ignorance nor ask for further clarity. Hiccup knew well what his father meant. He pursed his lips and stared down at the man's clenching fists, hearing those knuckles pop. He could feel the anger swelling across the table.

His father's voice was piercing. "Do you understand what you've _done_? If the Svensons or the Hofferson find out what you did, the entire terms of the marriage must be renegotiated! Astrid's worth and reputation plummets and the Hofferson are worse off in the bargain, disgraced. You have slept with another man's _wife—_future wife, albeit, but…did you stop and _think,_ for one moment—?"

Hiccup held up his hands. "Now that you understand how serious this is, maybe you can help me out? Y'know, some good, fatherly advice?" Stoick's expression hardened and Hiccup practically fell prostrate across the table. "Come on, dad! You've been trying to make me tougher my whole life. This is actually the first time I _need_ to fight like a Viking."

"Son, my hands are tied. I can't help you with this. I am the chief and this is a fight set between yo and Stefnir that I have to uphold. I _have_ to stay neutral. This is _your_ mess; but you're daft if you think you can beat Stefnir Svenson in a fight."

Hiccup frowned. "Oh, well, thanks for the vote of confidence. It's not like I'm _completely _inept."

"Confidence?" His father scoffed, rising to his feet to pace again. He pointed a derogating finger in Hiccup's direction. "You can't just avoid him the whole time, slipping away like you do. No tricks! Your going to have to engage him. Since when do you know how to use a sword and shield like he does?"

"_My_ sword, dad. _My_ shield." Hiccup felt like he could not stress that fact enough, for his ingenuity had to count for something. "I've been working all these extra hours in the smithy and I think I've—"

His father strode for the door with a dismissive wave. "Spare me the details, Hiccup. I can only pray you survive with all your limbs intact—"

"Nice," Hiccup grumbled.

The chief wrenched open the door, silhouetted by daylight. He whipped around for the last word. "—and that no one else ever finds out what you and Astrid have done!"

He was gone, plunging Hiccup back into the dimness with a furious slam of the door. Hiccup glared into the crackling hearth, watching flames and embers spiral up in a cathartic dance.

He was tired and wanted it all to end: lying, Astrid's unhappiness, Stefnir's hate, and his father's frustration; though, he supposed the shouting match was better than the cold, silent wind blowing off his father's shoulder by the end of the Selection feast.

When was loving someone crime?

Well, perhaps when honest affection were explored dishonestly. Maybe.

But when he closed his eyes, there were flashes of blue, and the gentle heat of the nearby fire was like Astrid's skin on his. The way she looked at him, touched him, and when she told him she loved him, was worth it. He was resigned to do battle with Stefnir because it would be worth everything to be with Astrid openly; to have their relationship accepted.

He could hold his own against dimwitted adversaries, but Stefnir would be fast and powerful, skilled in combat as most Hooligans were. Hiccup knew his dad would not train him. Astrid certainly could not get away with it. Snotlout would use him as a punching bag and delight in it. The twins and Fishlegs were not even a consideration. He needed someone smart and quick on their feet, intuitive in a fight and powerful, as Stefnir would be.

Kind of like…

A dragon.

Hiccup perked up, turning around to grin at his Night Fury, curled up by the stairs. Toothless's drooping eyes snapped open with a curious tilt of his head.

"Hey, bud. Looks like you're going to be my sparring partner."

* * *

Astrid could not stand the gossiping and the intrusive stares that followed her and Stefnir as they stormed through the village. Living with the ugliness behind closed doors was bad enough, but for their personal strife to be dragged out in front of Berk for everyone to see and comment on behind their hands was worse. They did not think Astrid could hear—oh, but she heard them. Eyes lingered on her. She could imagine the accusations—worse still, that they were true. Her private business had been amplified for all of Berk's sordid entertainment. Astrid was getting a good, hard look at herself through others' perspective; and she was disgusted and the person she saw. The person she was. Who she had been pretending not to be.

"You never answered her last night!" Stefnir growled, jogging in front of her to cut her off. He grasped her arm. "How long have you and Hiccup been conspiring behind my back?"

"We were _not_ conspiring! Not at first," she hissed, wrenching her arm free. "Once Hiccup found out about the _holmgang,_ I wished the law was written differently so I could challenge you myself!"

No more subtlety. No more passive aggression. What was the point? Her claws came out. A possible end was in sight, and even if Hiccup was defeated, she could marry Stefnir with all her resentment on her sleeve. Being nice and compliant was a wasted effort now that there was no one's feelings left to protect.

"So, he wanted to fight your battle for you?"

"No, but he certainly wants me free of you. Something he and I agree on."

"Has he put his hands on you? Tell me, Astrid! Right here. No lies!"

She felt her throat tighten and she clenched her sweating hands. "No," she answered. Louder, so the onlookers could hear, she repeated, "NO."

The nosy crowd was erupted into a low buzz of chatter.

Stefnir reached for her shoulders and she slapped both his hands away. "Back up," she warned. "I'm not your happy intended anymore."

"It had to come to this for you to show me some passion," he snarled, looking her up and down with new contempt.

"That's right, and it's all hate," she replied, holding her arms wide. "The way you try to control where I go and who I talk to—"

"Because I never trusted _him!"_ Stefnir jerked his head toward the smithy were the striking of metal could be heard; the only part of the village that did not seemed to be hanging on every word of their spat. "Turns out I had every reason not to trust him! I should have tried harder with you. Those looks you gave him, and he gave you. I was stupid. I never should have let you anywhere near him!"

Astrid rolled her eyes, sliding her trembling hands over her pulled back hair. "You can't put a leash on me, Stef! I tried to do the right thing in the beginning, to make everyone happy, but all that got me was deeper into a lie with you! I was losing myself to be the proper daughter and Viking everyone expects me to be! I can't do it anymore. I'm done! I don't love you!"

Stefnir's teeth were bared and he inflated with another angry retort. Instead, he exhaled and grumbled. "Did you ever?"

Astrid was taken aback, and her eyes darted all over his face, searching for a shred of hate to hold on to. He was seething, but hurt. A riled up, wounded animal. She answered, "I tried, and that's all I could do."

"I love you!" he snapped like it was insult, voice returning to full volume. "I want to marry you! I could make you happy if you'd give me a chance."

Astrid snorted. Lavish gifts bought the adoration of shallow, petty women, and Stefnir could not measure love beyond material wealth and a masculine possessiveness.

"The last two years were your chance, and I believe you gave it your best shot. It just wasn't enough for me," she explained.

"He won't win, though! Then where will we be?"

"Locked in matrimonial despair?"

"When the _holmgang_ is over, and I've wiped the arena with Hiccup's blood, you'll _still_ be mine and I _refuse_ to let what we have die. I've invested too much in—!"

Astrid recoiled, lip curled. "Two years is _not_ too much—!"

"You've given up on the possibility of us. I haven't," Stefnir retorted, advancing. Astrid held her ground, eyes narrowed. "When we flew together and sparred together…those hunts we went on…you can't tell me those meant nothing to you!"

Astrid pursed her lips, unable to meet his eye. She could not deny the camaraderie they shared once, when they could be friends and marriage was a distant thought. That was when she had believed in them, foolishly, committed to doing the right thing. If she had any sense of guilt, it was in deceiving _that_ Stefnir, but he had recently stepped aside for a new brute of a man.

He was smug. "That's what I thought," he said. "There's something here worth fighting for."

"You're crazy. There's _nothing_ here! That's what I'm trying to tell you! What was and what might have been if…well, that doesn't matter!" she said quickly. "You think, even if you win the fight, my feelings are going to change?"

He leaned in, nose almost touching hers. One of Astrid's fists were balled and poised to punch.

"Well, we'll just have to see. I'm not going to let you make a fool out of me, Astrid." He nodded, as if he could will the outcome of the _holmgang. _He strode off, content with the last word like he always was. In his mind, it was a win if he could bleat the loudest and the longest.

Astrid folded her arms and glared down at the dirt. The spectators remained, and she heard the buzz of hushed and hurried conversation. Their stares were like bee stings, pricking her all over. Her face burned and she marched off toward the stables, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone.

Dragons were wonderful creatures, unconcerned with Viking laws and social customs. Stormfly would be the first face Astrid saw who did not want to talk about relationships and scandal. Her Nadder was a reliable companion, never swayed in her opinion of her rider. For a few hours, they could get away from Berk, from the hovering cloud of judgment. There was no doubt in her mind, with the scrutiny of her fellow tribeswomen, there was a small part of Berk, at least, which had painted her as some kind of temptress. She wanted to be up in the skies with her dragon, where she could just be Astrid Hofferson, no one's betrothed, no one's daughter, no one's walking target of blame and scorn.

As she walked away from the final resting place of her privacy, the hammering in the smithy grew fainter. She wondered if Hiccup was dealing with his own share of ridicule. At the very least, she hoped each strike of his hammer was forging the clever instrument of Stefnir's defeat.

* * *

"Do you have some kind of strategy at least?" Gobber asked. "Not that I'm _not_ cheering for you, but I already made the wedding rings. All this work for nothing if you win…"

He dropped the jewelry on the workbench beside Hiccup, and they might as well have been two solid blocks of lead with how heavily they seemed to fall and demand his attention. Jaw twitching, he picked them up, holding them in separate palms because it was an insult to see them rest together so beautifully. Astrid's band was thinner, several links of silver twisted together into a small rope-like pattern, fashioned into a ring. In his other hand, Stefnir's band was thicker, engraved with simple knotwork.

"They're nice," he said, handing them back to Gobber. They were placed inside a small, simple box.

The older man shrugged. "Eh. They'll do, I suppose…though, I don't know why you didn't make 'em. With the Selection over with, your not exactly drowning in saddle orders at the moment."

"You know why I can't, Gobber," Hiccup muttered, picking up his hammer and chisel.

Gobber nodded. "Aye, but you decided to make the ceremonial sword for them anyway, not to mention your odd piece over there." He nodded to where the nearly finished Dragon Blade laid atop of like sketches. A jar of viscous Monstrous Nightmare saliva sat beside it.

Hiccup answered, "I guess I'm in a mood."

He continued engraving the elegant blade in front of him—his prototypical weapon would have to wait until nightfall, when he could work in private, uninterrupted.

Gobber had forged the ceremonial blade a couple days prior, and Hiccup had offered to decorate it, not at all in accordance with Stefnir's wishes as they had been lined out to the older smith. The piece was a long broadsword, and it would be adorned with intricate patterns in the fuller, entwining stylized dragons whose bodies were comprised of knotwork, once Hiccup was through with it.

Gobber scratched his chin, quirking an overgrown brow. "I don't understand. You challenge Stefnir, but you're finishing the wedding sword for him, and putting so much effort into it, too. Isn't that a bit…counter-intuitive?"

Hiccup paused, taking the opportunity to crack his tense neck. After a moment, he answered, "This sword is not for him."

He was crafting it for Astrid, truth be told, never to be touched by Stefnir. The sword would sit in Hiccup's bedroom, among his valuables for an indeterminate amount of time. But, should anyone come to ask, he was continuing the project for insurance in case he lost, to make sure the wedding could still proceed, since it seemed like very few people, if anyone, believed he would win. The lie was no quite so far-fetched.

"Ah," Gobber grunted, though his face was still plenty confused. "Well, do you suppose it _should_ be for Stefnir? Plans for the wedding are moving forward as if you've already lost. I mean, you probably _will_…"

"I seem to recall you once telling me I should fight for Astrid," Hiccup retorted over his meticulous chiseling.

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"Well, clearly I meant before she got engaged and it would cause such a…" The blacksmith's one good hand gestured searchingly. "Kerfuffle."

"You didn't know?" Hiccup glanced up, suspicious.

"About Astrid and Stefnir? Contrary to what you may believe, Hiccup, your father doesn't tell me _everything_. Like you, I assumed it was a love-match between 'em."

"Well, it's not." More chiseling.

Gobber sighed. "So, she loves you. Perhaps the two of you could have figured that out earlier and saved everyone a lot of time and grief?" he asked with a wry grin.

"Arranged marriage, Gobber. Remember? Our feelings don't really matter."

"Yes, so let's settle it the old Viking way!" Gobber chimed. "I haven't seen a good _holmgang_ since before you were born."

Hiccup glanced up again, brow furrowed. "Who won?"

"The husband-to-be, of course," Gobber answered, mumbling around the hand picking at his false tooth.

"Of…course?"

"Face it, Hiccup. A man never fights so passionately as when he's fighting to protect what's his."

Hiccup's gaze snapped back to his work, and his stomach twisted to think of the last time he saw Astrid and Stefnir together, the way the other young man had bellowed at her, punching the wall next to her head. She had stared up at him with searing hatred, cornered, as she extended him the mercy of her shame. She would not brawl him in the Great Hall during a holiday, and Stefnir had thought he was the one in control.

Then Hiccup remembered his own anger, his furious disgust as Stefnir berated Astrid. Only a handful of times could he recall the desire to hurt somebody, and before that Selection feast, the urge was reserved for anyone who threatened Toothless.

"Yeah," he told Gobber. "I can believe that."

"So, that brings me back to my original question." The man hesitated for dramatic effect. "_Do _you have a strategy?"

"I'm going to use the Dragon Blade prototype and my Gronckle Iron shield to throw off his game," Hiccup explained. He had been awake in bed until the wee hours, running over the upcoming fight in his head. "Stefnir's skilled, but he's large. I think I can outmaneuver him. He'll wear himself out."

"You're assuming he won't land a cut on you in the meantime, while you're doing all your fancy footwork."

"Well, I'm not going to assume I'm going to lose, either."

A large hand smacked Hiccup in the back of the head and he winced.

He spun around, scowling. "What was _that_ for?"

"For being a dunce," Gobber commented, hobbling his way toward the roaring forge.

* * *

Toothless crouched low to the ground, rolling his shoulders like a cat ready to pounce. Hiccup stared him down, reading his dragon's body language, trying to anticipate his next move. Large eyes studied him as they slowly circled each other by the pond in the cove. The dragon was prepared to spar their third round, but neither one of them had yet made a move.

How serious could they truly be with one another?

Toothless would never hurt him, but the Night Fury _would_ attack non-lethally. Of that, Hiccup was certain; but attacks would come quick and powerful, and he steeled his gut for it.

Toothless inhaled and Hiccup dove for his shield that was laying on the ground a few yards away. He had only _just_ managed to raise it up in front of him when he was hit by a rapid succession of smaller, contained plasma blasts. They were strong enough to knock him off his feet and burn through his clothing. Hel, it would leave a blistering mark on his skin should he be too slow. He would be down for the count, but he trusted Toothless not to seriously maim him—he had not yet—just as much as the dragon trusted him to evade. They knew each other too well. Reading Toothless was as easy as reading a book for Hiccup, but he had no other options or willing participants.

The Gronckle Iron shield deflected the dragon's fire easily enough, but the force of the impact had knocked Hiccup on his back. He scrambled to right himself, but his dragon was faster.

Toothless pounced, biting down on the shield and wrenching it off Hiccup's arm. With a flick of his head, it went flying, sliding along the mossy ground some yards away. He then reared back and stomped down, like he was trying to squash an abnormally large insect: one with three and a half limbs and leather pants.

Hiccup rolled from one side to the other, dodging Toothless's claws. He somersaulted backwards, onto his feet. Out from underneath Toothless, he sprinted for his glinting shield, diving again. His knees hit the dirt as his dragon fired another volley of tiny, injure-not-kill blasts. Hiccup gripped the shield, lifting it protectively as he swiveled on his knees. The strength behind even a consciously reduced plasma blast rattled the bones in his body. He blocked the Night Fury's attack, but it knocked him off balance. He tried to stand, but Toothless spun around, swinging his tail like a long, black, scaly whip. Hiccup ducked as it cleared his head by inches, but Toothless tried again, aiming for his legs.

Hiccup tumbled over it, rolling along the ground and using the momentum to push up on his feet. The Night Fury let out a growl of frustration; he did not like to lose.

Hiccup ran at Toothless as the dragon bounded straight for him. The dragon attempted to pounce and wrestle his human to the ground, but every time the Night Fury tried to get a hold of Hiccup, he managed to sidestep or wiggle free.

Toothless sat back on his haunches, taking a couple of swipes at his rider, and Hiccup seized the opportunity to fire the small bola concealed in the center hub of his shield. The weighted rope snagged around Toothless' front legs and his thick neck. The dragon gave an irritated roar as he toppled backwards, the bola throwing off his balance. He flailed on his back for a moment before managing to right himself, firing retaliatory plasma blasts.

Hiccup raised his shield and braced himself, deflecting every blow. Even though the force of it pushed him back, he had dug in his feet into the earth, real and prosthetic, remaining upright and balanced. Victory to the dragon rider.

"Yes!" He exclaimed, thrusting his fist into the air. "I _finally_ did it!"

And it had only taken three rounds and a hope and a prayer.

Toothless, bitter about losing the skirmish, did not share in his enthusiasm. The dragon shook free of his bonds and whipped his tail around again, connecting with Hiccup's chest. He was thrown into the pond, gasping as he surfaced. The wind had been knocked out of him and he sputtered, swimming for the bank.

Toothless let out a warble that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

"Very funny," Hiccup wheezed, climbing out of the water. "You are the worst loser I have ever met, and I would know; Snotlout's my cousin."

Toothless just continued to "chuckle."

"Yeah, yeah. Sticks and stones, and all that," Hiccup sighed, walking forward to pick up the discarded bola. He wound it back into the center of his shield.

The Night Fury curled up on a sunny patch of grass, watching his human with mild interest. When his ears perked up and his snout turned skyward, Hiccup took notice of rattling leaves and the soft beat of wings overhead. A shadow hovered over them, and he squinted up into the sunlight. A dragon was descending gracefully, and he knew it was Stormfly before he even made out the spikes on her tail.

"Am I ever glad to see you," Astrid said to the pair of them as patted her Nadder's hide.

"How did you know I was here?" Hiccup asked as she dismounted. Their dragons conversed in the peculiar way they always did—some sort head bobbing equivalent to a secret handshake and indistinct warbling.

"I didn't. I've been out on Stormfly all afternoon and I saw you down here."

"Had to get away from the village?" Hiccup asked, setting his shield down as she strode toward him.

They embraced, briefly. Astrid pulled back and she looked as spent as he felt.

"Hiccup, it's awful. Whispers and stares everywhere I go. Gods only know what they're saying."

She gazed up at him, her brow wrinkled and her eyes filled with distress. He felt a stab of guilt. Only a day ago, she was still held in such high regard around Berk. Everyone beamed at the bride-to-be. He had found it nauseating at the time.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I feel like this is my—"

She scoffed, shaking her head and taking a step toward him. "It's both of us. Don't think I'm going to let you take all the blame for it." She glanced away, eyes dark, and added, "You're already fighting my battle for me."

He took a step toward her that time. His hands migrated to her waist and he pulled her closer. "If we're in this together it's _our_ battle, isn't it? Whether you fight or I do, does it really matter?"

Her hands fell to his chest and she huffed. "You know what I mean! It should be _me_ in the ring, going at him with my axe. Not you and your shield and…whatever else you're throwing together in the shop."

Hiccup frowned. He could deal with just about everyone else's negativity, but Astrid wanting to take his place and fight on his behalf on _her_ behalf—well, it was disheartening if coming from a place of doubt.

"You know, it's getting pretty exhausting that no one seems to think I can win," he deadpanned.

She took a deep breath. "You've pulled off some pretty crazy stunts, Hiccup, I'll give you that. The Red Death, all those wild dragons we've face, Dagur, but…I don't want to sit by and watch you get hurt." Her eyes flickered to his prosthesis, then back to his face. "Not again. Not for me. It's all wrong."

"I don't want to sit by and watch you marry Stefnir. If this fight fixes that, then I'm alright with it."

She rolled her eyes, picking at the lacings of his tunic collar. "You make it sound like this is just some other dragon-related problem you can solve."

"It _is_ a solution. Maybe not as easy or clean as we would've hoped, but it's the only chance we've got and it's worth taking, or things continue along the same, dismal trajectory. I can't…_not_ do this, Astrid."

She smirked. "Hiccup, the boar-headed optimist?"

He grinned. "More like the pragmatist."

She closed the space between them, hugging him, and his arms came around her at once. Astrid, pressed against him, her face in the crook of his neck—that was how it needed to be in Berk, in front of everyone, without the scandal. For the past two years, they should have been free to explore such affection.

"My parents are keeping a close eye on me," she murmured, her breath tickling his throat. "In the village, everyone's watching all the time now, like this sad situation is some big spectacle. I don't…I don't think it's wise to sneak out at night. I don't think we should."

The words stung but it was the prudent choice to make. He had been having similar ideas swirling in his head after the argument with his father, but he did not want to give them any credence. Still, they were under close scrutiny, and to a Viking like Astrid, name and reputation still meant so much.

"I, uh…I agree. This has put enough trouble on you and I don't—"

"I'm not some _damsel_, Hiccup," she growled, pulling back. She poked him in the chest with a sharp fingernail. "I'm not the only person whose feelings matter in this. It sucks that it has to be this way, but don't make it sound like I've the most to lose when _you're _the one going into the ring."

He sighed, shaking his head. "I know you're not a damsel, but I love you. Am I not allowed to care?"

She stared at him for a moment, then bowed her head, tucking it under his chin.

"Well, I guess I have to worry about _you_, then," she muttered. "You're obviously not going to do it." She was silent for a moment, hand rubbing his chest over the leather. He felt her lips graze his neck and his eyes fluttered closed. "Promise you can win this?" she whispered. "Not for my sake, not to free me from some terrible marriage, but so that Stefnir doesn't chop you into pieces."

Her fingers were already on his belt, and he kissed the crown of her head before untucking her fitted top from her skirt.

"I promise. I'm going to win this," he said firmly, and though he could not honestly promise any such thing, he would fight as if that vow meant everything.

"Hiccup…"

Their lips collided in a hot, deep kiss. They wasted no time. Eager hands tore at each other's clothing as their dragons frolicked carelessly around the cove. Somewhere in the back of Hiccup's mind, it registered that their affair might continue should he lose. That all of the pain and bitterness in their lives could persist, business as usual. But as her breast binding hit the ground, Hiccup hoped whenever he put his hands on her again, he would be completely free to do so.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Here it is, the final chapter! Time for a victory lap! Do me a solid and leave a review, please. Oh, and stick around _for the sequel._

* * *

Astrid could not sleep. The rising sun would bring the _holmgang_ with it, and no amount of fatigue eclipsed that single, worrisome fact. Her body was sluggish and her eyes itched with exhaustion, but it did not matter. Her mind was wide awake, racing and spinning. Curled up under the covers, or sprawled out with them kicked to the foot of the bed, made no difference. Neither did lying down, nor sitting up with her legs dangling. She was a prisoner of her mind.

She dwelled on the worst possible outcomes of the coming fight and paid little heed to the best. Any optimism gave way to the thought that Hiccup was a defensive fighter if not on Toothless, and the _holmgang_ was an offensive match. Stefnir was a fearsome opponent who was unlikely to stop at first blood. He wanted a decisive win. Hiccup could not dodge his way to victory.

With an aggravated sigh, Astrid rolled out of bed. Remaining horizontal was doing her little good.

Her Terrible Terror stirred as she paced, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. She was right over her parents' bedroom but she did not care if she woke them in her restlessness. Years ago, they had made a decision about her future without her input. Even though it had been done with the best intentions, the arrangement persisted in spite of her protests once she had reached proper age. Parents always thought they knew better, and that a promise made before personalities and wants even developed was still binding somehow. An arranged marriage was for her betterment—so she could prosper in life, her mother claimed—an recently antiquated practice, since death did not come as early to the young men of Berk since peace with dragons. Many outstanding contracts had been dissolved, but not hers. Not when there would be mutual gain for both families involved. The Svensons were a safe bet—an investment. Hiccup, a gamble.

But she loved him. She came alive for him. She would rather risk and fail with Hiccup than spend an entire lifetime pretending with Stefnir, gazing across the Great Hall at the new chief and his strange wife from a strange land, wondering what might have been.

She paced over to her window, opening the shutters to gaze out at the sleeping village, dark and still. The moon hung low above the sea, slipping away with the last hours of the night.

She loved her village and her people, but at the same time, she hated them. Before Stefnir, everyone seemed to be onboard with her and Hiccup as a couple. Passersby would nudge one another and nod in their direction, smiling fondly and _knowingly_ at the blossoming friendship between them—but then she was in an arranged marriage. Suddenly, everyone was behind the union between the Svenson and Hofferson clans, believing it was more than what it was—just political maneuvering. Two families of influence and repute, a marriage between them garnered much excitement. She and Hiccup, seen as just a youthful fancy, fell from Berk's collective consciousness. Until the _holmgang._ Astrid and Hiccup's relationship was at the forefront of everyone's mind again, but it had become scandal.

Astrid folded her arms, leaning against her window frame. The chief's house was a beacon in the distance, solid black, but calling to her like the most enticing _näcken_ song. Hiccup's fingertips gliding over her skin would set the tempo, and their murmurs in the dark would be the melody, bodies pressing and rubbing together in alternating crescendos and diminuendos.

She did not necessarily want to go to him for sex. Simply lying with Hiccup, wrapped in his body heat and lulled to sleep by his rhythmic breathing, was a pleasant enough fantasy. There was a level of safety and comfort with him she did not realize she had been missing. Not that she _needed _any protection beyond what her axe and dragon provided; but there was something to be said for the satisfaction of a lover's embrace. No stresses or concerns would slip through Hiccup's arms. Astrid's mind could find time to rest as the world dissolved outside of his bedroom.

But that was only daydream. They had agreed not to see each other before the fight and risk further fanning the flames of outrage. Only her brain that kept her indoors, while her heart and her body were ready to throw caution to the wind and go to him. In such times, she cursed common sense, for there was no guarantee Hiccup could clinch victory in the fight to come.

Her eyes flickered to the Svenson house. If Stefnir won, all her nights would be spent in his possessive hold. She would go to bed, terrified her husband might want her. She would wake up beside a man for whom she felt no affection. Repeat.

Every hope she had for the future, for guiltless kisses and the end of the sneaking around, rested on Hiccup and whatever invention he had slapped together to give him an offensive edge. It would be maddening to be a bystander in her own fate, to watch as her Stefnir took violent swings at her lover on her behalf, to be fought over like a piece of meat. It was an affront to her pride and dignity for Hiccup to fight in her stead, but the _holmgang _was an old law based on old values, before dragons were even enemies and women had proved their worth as warriors.

Astrid sneered, turning away from the window with one last contemptuous stare at the Svenson house. She slipped on her boots and grabbed a bundle of clothes and bathing essentials. If she could not get to sleep, she might as well do something productive. Berk's nearest stream was private enough before the sun rose in another hour or so. The cold water would be invigorating, giving her the alertness she would need to get through the rest of the dismal morning. Perhaps it would wash away some of the tension, though she doubted it. The _holmgang_ would be like watching the Red Death battle all over again.

She could only hope the outcome would be different, that Hiccup would walk away a whole.

* * *

"They're all staring at you," Tuffnut mumbled, swiveling around his seat to survey the rest of the Great Hall. "I mean, _really_ staring. Judging, probably."

"Thank you for that, Tuff. It's not like I can't feel the stares boring into me or hear the whispers," Hiccup replied, poking at his breakfast with little appetite. "It's something I'm accustomed to."

"Yeah, but that's when you were a screw-up," Tuffnut said. "This is kinda different."

Hiccup frowned, glaring up at the blonde. He could not then avoid the surrounding tables of Vikings casting him grim, sidelong glances. Faces that, not too long ago, smiled at him brightly around the village, were now distant and suspicious. His eyes snapped back to his lap and the sheath lying across it. His fingers traced over the grip and the pommel of the hidden Dragon Blade.

"I don't get what the big deal is. You're giving them a brawl. They should be kissing your scrawny butt!" Snotlout remarked, gesticulating with the spoon in his thick hand. "So what if you're breaking up another guy's marriage, whisking away his bride-to-be, ruining his life? What do _they_ care?"

Hiccup wrinkled his nose, glancing up at his cousin. "While that's not exactly how I would phrase it…you know what this village is like, Snotlout. We're a tribe of Vikings that hate to challenge the status quo."

His cousin blew a derisive raspberry.

"Status quo, status schmo," Snotlout scoffed. "There's gonna be a good fight out of it, assuming you last like…five minutes." He shrugged his shoulders, stuffing his spoon in his mouth.

"Hiccup, do you actually think you can beat Stefnir? I mean, he's been killing dragons since before the rest of us even went into dragon training. This is what he _does,"_ Fishlegs spoke up, putting his large hand on Hiccup's shoulder with concern.

"I'm aware of that, Fishlegs. I, uh…I have a plan. Sort of."

Snotlout cackled, slapping his thigh. "Oh, man! Stop what you're doing everyone!" he shouted to the surrounding tables, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Hiccup has a plan!"

Several people turned around, puzzled. Others, indignant.

Hiccup set the Dragon Blade on the table, leaning over to hiss, "Would you st—!"

"Big surprise. You have a plan," Snotlout finished, grinning. His eyes flickered to the strange weapon across from him.

Hiccup sighed, knocking his cousin's hand away when the other young man reached over to touch the Dragon Blade. Snotlout yelped and rubbed the back of his hand, eyeing Hiccup with reproach, unaware his clumsy fingers had nearly flicked a crucial switch on the grip.

"I'm just a little confused, you know? I thought Astrid and Stefnir were pretty close." Fishelgs scratched his large chin. "You used to sulk about it—"

"I didn't sulk," Hiccup deadpanned.

Tuffnut chuckled, shaking his head. His arm fell across Hiccup's shoulders and Hiccup recoiled. "You were the sulkingest Viking I'd ever seen."

Snotlout snorted. "Yeah. No one was buying that 'I don't care Astrid has a boyfriend who isn't me' line of yakshit you were feeding everybody."

Hiccup furrowed his brow, transparent once again. He could deny it, but what would be the point? Why pretend he had ever fallen out of love with Astrid? He would soon cross blades with her intended, rendering any and all "might or might not have felt this or that" rather moot. So, nobody else believed he had ever stopped caring—but he had believed it for a time. As had Astrid. Somehow they had only been deluding themselves and each other, caught up in their own self-pity to see things with a clear perspective.

Two years wasted by determined stupidity.

"Well, I hope you win." And it was sincere and full of confidence.

"_Thank you_, Fishlegs," Hiccup said.

"I…It would be kind of nice to have the whole gang back together again," the larger boy admitted, sheepish.

Hiccup could empathize. Everything had been on a downward spiral over the last two years and his bitterness had played its part, in retrospect. A wall did not just keep one soul out; it repelled everyone.

"Well, I don't care either way. I mean, I don't necessarily want you to _die_ or anything, though Stefnir looks pretty committed to end you…but if you lose, I get three silvers and sweet Stoker Class broach from Gutsav. So, you know, don't try _too_ hard," Snotlout said, not the least bit ashamed.

Hiccup shook his head, not entirely sure he had heard his cousin correctly. "What?"

"Oh, Ruffnut's taking bets," Tuffnut answered, picking at some dirt underneath his fingernails.

The calm acceptance of that fact by all of Hiccup's friends was jarring.

"On whether or not I'll lose?" he retorted, feeling himself puff up with indignation.

"No just that! Whether you'll last a minute," the male Thorston chimed.

"Two minutes," Snotlout snickered.

"Five minutes—Here." Ruffnut appeared at her brother's shoulder. She sat down beside him and smoothed out a long piece of parchment on the table. "Sven just bet a dozen eggs he'll last at least five."

"Sucker," Tuffnut replied.

"You guys!"Fishlegs remarked, appalled, and Hiccup was glad at least one person was on his side.

"What? We're capitalizing on a golden opportunity," Ruffnut responded, hands up.

"By taking bets on whether or not I will literally die?" Hiccup asked.

"No! Not die! No one's betting you'll _die_—Oh, except Evert. He's betting a yak. Wow. He's got no faith in you at all. Said you don't stand a chance without your dragon," Tuffnut replied, skimming his finger over the list of bets his sister had collected.

"Wait, you're reading that wrong." Ruffnut swatted him impatiently. "It's says 'an inch from death'. So no. No one's betting you'll _literally _die, only kind of die." She smiled up at Hiccup, as if the clarification made him feel any better.

Hiccup massaged his temples. Maybe he should have left Berk with Toothless all those years ago. Staying did not seem beneficial for his health or sanity.

"Hiccup…why are you even doing this?" Fishelgs asked, his voice a nervous squeak. "I mean, I know you care about Astrid but was she really so unhappy? Isn't all of this a bit drastic?"

"Her marriage to Stefnir is arranged, Fishlegs. She never said anything to any of us because she didn't think there was anything that could be done about it. So, silently enduring instead of making a fuss was her way of making it all easier," Hiccup explained.

"Well, it did, didn't it?" the larger boy responded.

"For everyone else. Not for her. Not for me. I love—"

Snotlout and the twins hissed loudly, covering their ears and twisting their faces.

"Ugh. _Gross._ Spare us. Who cares about who feels what for whom?" Snotlout remarked, waving his hand dismissively. He seemed affronted. _Aghast_ anybody might discuss the sensitive subject of feelings in his presence. "There's going to be an awesome fight either way. All I care about is whether or not somebody gets some good hits in. Screw the reasons for it."

Hiccup rolled his eyes. "Your support is remarkable," he replied with a flat sarcasm. "Truly."

"Look, Hiccup. You like Astrid?" Tuffnut interjected, suddenly serious. Or rather, as serious as _he_ could be, which usually preceded some kind of inanity.

Hiccup quirked an eyebrow. "Yes."

"And she likes you, right?"

"_Yes._"

"Then we're with you," Tuffnut said, leaning back with a satisfied grin.

Hiccup was taken aback, but the reassuring nods of Fishlegs and Ruffnut touched something in him. His friends had faded into the background in light of all the recent turmoil, not forgotten, but not a priority. After the past few days of being told how _wrong_ he was, he had never been more appreciative of the camaraderie they all shared.

"I don't know." Snotlout began. "I really want my three silver p—Gah!" He jumped with a grimace. Ruffnut was sitting across from him, hands balled to fists. She had lurched forward a bit and there was a dull _thud_ beneath the table that had silenced Snotlout most effectively. He glared at her, hunched over as he rubbed his leg beneath the table. "_Fine._ Yeah. I guess we're with you. Go out there and win or something."

"Thanks," Hiccup said, smiling.

But it was all just a little too late to bolster his confidence.

A horn blared, loud and distant, and his heart sank. Under normal circumstances, it was a call to gather spectators for a dragon race, but to Hiccup, it sounded like a call to war. He did not have the combat skill that Stefnir did, but he was armed with a few tricks and his would have to be enough. For Astrid, it _could_ be enough.

Instead of excited cheers that accompanied game day, the Great Hall was filled grim murmurs. With a deep breath, Hiccup rose to his feet, keenly aware of the stares in his direction. Across the room, Stefnir was also standing. They locked gazes, and it was as if the challenge had just been set all over again.

Tuffnut spoke up, and Hiccup only barely heard him over the blood rushing in his ears.

"But, you know, if you can stand it…a broken nose wins us a new scale brush for Barf and Belch."

* * *

Astrid had stayed with Stormfly as long as she could, keeping her Nadder company in her stall after their morning flight. She did not want to be out among the rest of her tribe, hearing talk about who might win, or pretending not to notice the accusatory looks that followed her. She was too tired for it, wanting only to watch the fight—to support Hiccup and nothing more. How could anyone think she would be content to be a spectator instead of _in_ the damn ring? As much as Hiccup wanted to defeat Stefnir for the sake of their relationship, he could not swing his sword with half the resentment Astrid felt. He wanted to win, but he could not possibly feel the urge to punch Stefnir in the face as much as she did.

She heard the horn blaring and felt her stomach twist with dread. Hiccup could win, but he could also lose. If he fell to Stefnir, his injuries counting for nothing, Astrid would never be able to look at him again, much less _touch_ him again. The overwhelming guilt would sear her if she tried—and what was worse, Hiccup would never blame her for it. For anything. The fight just problem-solving to him, doing what had to be done for a dilemma they had made for themselves, fighting to free her from a situation in which they were both complicit like it was some inevitable duty of his.

Absurd, all of it.

"No matter what happens, at least I'll still have you, girl. We'll still fly tomorrow," Astrid cooed, patting Stormfly before locking up her stall. "Keep Toothless company, in the meantime."

The Nadder growled like she understood, and Astrid cast a pitying glance at the agitated Night Fury. He paced in the center of the chamber like a caged animal, naked without Hiccup's saddle and his prosthetic tail. Astrid was certain the dragon did not understand all the finer details of the day, but Toothless understood _something_ was happening, and Hiccup was involved, and it was not good. He tossed he head with an impatient warble.

The stable master watched him warily and Astrid was not sure Toothless could be stopped if he decided to intervene, but the dragon had been confined to the stables during the match with the hope that he might obey. He had been there since Astrid and Stormfly had returned from their flight, and the only feasible reason he had stayed put was because Hiccup must have told him to do so, for there was no one else Toothless would heed. He was a dragon as stubborn as his rider, and just as exclusive.

But maybe she could reach him. She and Toothless had always gotten along, rocky introduction notwithstanding. She wanted to soothe him because she could do little else to help Hiccup as he fought Stefnir. Mollifying his dragon, very much a half of his own heart, would be the one favor she could return.

"Toothless…hey," Astrid murmured, approaching the Night Fury slowly, "it's alright."

The dragon turned to her, head cocked. She reached out and placed a hand on his snout and his pupils rounded, features softening. He gazed at her, confused, but leaned into her touch. His nostrils flared and he warbled a question, one that perhaps Hiccup would have been able to translate.

"You have to stay here, okay? You can't help Hiccup this time," Astrid explained. For there was nothing else that could disconcert Toothless quite like being separated from his human. The need to defend Hiccup was ingrained in him, and to keep him in the stables was denying him an instinctive protectiveness. She could see the Night Fury process her words, ears perking up at the sound of familiar name. He was thinking, clever and intuitive. "That's right. Stay. For _Hiccup_. You understand, don't you? _Hiccup _wants you to stay here."

Toothless considered her, then he sat down, wings drawn against his body. His whole posture seemed to droop, resigned. There was a pitiful rumble in the back of his throat, and he was addressing Astrid, pleading with her.

"Oh, Toothless. I know exactly how you feel," she said, feeling her chest tighten. She was bound too, not by caves, but by an old piece of parchment that dictated Hiccup had to be the one risking life and limb. She turned to the stable master, tucking her hair behind her ears with shaking fingers, "There. That…That's how you talk to him. He doesn't really listen to anyone other than Hiccup, so you have to appeal to—"

The horn sounded a second time for the stragglers.

"Aye—but I reckon you have a match to go watch," the man replied, "while I'm stuck here babysitting this _one _dragon. Consider yourself lucky—"

Astrid hurried by him with a brusque, "I'm not getting any enjoyment out of this!"

She paused on the stairs, glancing back at Toothless. The Night Fury was curled up on the ground, defeated. His head came to rest on his folded claws and Astrid could see his body expand and deflate with something akin to a sigh. He made another noise, soft and plaintive, and she had to leave before she fell to her knees beside the dragon to comfort him, feeling sorry for the both of them, missing the fight entirely.

* * *

Hiccup stood on one side of the arena while Gobber ushered Stefnir to the other. Calls from the crowd were one indistinct mass of noise and jeers, and there was nothing to be gained by determining how many people were cheering for him, and how many were supporting his opponent. He did not dare look up to see familiar faces, grinning with support or scowling. Berk was a writhing sea of colors above him.

Stefnir was staring him down with a cold glare meant to be piercing, meant to rattle him. Hiccup exhaled, a single puff of air through tight lips. Stefnir cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, baring his teeth while the spectators egged them on with more fervor. Hiccup unsheathed the Dragon Blade, tossing the leather aside. He picked up the Gronckle Iron shield at his feet, gripping it firmly.

"Hiccup!"

He gave a start, glancing toward the lowered gate. He felt his spirits lift as Astrid peered in through the bars, anxious and breathless, but there. For him, looking at him. He smiled, and she managed a small echo of a grin. The match had not yet started. Vikings were still filtering in to watch, and so he went to her, ignoring whatever threat Stefnir had just yelled at his back.

"I was beginning to think you might not watch this," he told her. People in the crowd were shouting at him too, be he could not care less.

"Of _course_, I'd be here," she replied, exasperated. "Just—"

"Hiccup! I need you back in the starting position," Gobber called, waving him over.

Hiccup nodded, but turned back to Astrid. "Last time we were like this, I was about to face Hookfang. To be honest, I'd _still_ rather face a dragon right about now."

"Hiccup!" Gobber snapped.

"Win," Astrid demanded, reaching through the bars to curl her fingers in his tunic.

"I…I can," he wavered.

"Hiccup!" Gobber just about bellowed, the energy of the surrounding crowd swelling to almost drown him out.

"_Win!"_ Astrid exclaimed, eyes locked on Hiccup's with intensity and conviction.

"I'll try—_mmphf_!"

Astrid pulled him in and their lips met, warm and earnest, as his cheek grazed over a cold metal bar. The kiss was brief and fretful, and almost as quickly as Astrid had initiated it, she was pulling away. She untangled her fingers from him, jaw clenched. He took a step back, blood hot with resolve. With one, small reassuring nod, he strode back over to the start position.

Stefnir's lip was curled with disdain and Gobber stood between them, arms outstretched.

"That's the last time you put your lips on my wife," Stefnir hissed through his clenched teeth.

"She's not your wife," Hiccup corrected delighting in the other mans' rising anger. "She won't ever be."

"Now, now," Gobber muttered. "Save it for the fight." He cleared his throat and spoke loudly, his voice reverberating off the stone walls for the spectators to hear. "The rules of the _holmgang_ are simple: each Viking gets one shield and one sword of his choosing. They will fight 'til first blood is drawn!"

"Actually, I would like to amend that rule," Stefnir spoke up. He did not take his predatory stare off of Hiccup as he said, "I propose we fight until a clear yield!" He then added, for only Hiccup and Gobber to hear, "I would ask for a death match, but I hardly think your father would allowed it, as supposedly neutral as he is."

"Hey now—" Gobber tried to interject.

"Until a yield is fine by me," Hiccup replied, fist tightening around the grip of his blade. "We'll settle this permanently. This fight needs to be the end of it."

Gobber cast Hiccup a sideways glance as if to remark on his insanity, but he shook his head and addressed the crowd. "The rules have been amended to a fight until yield!" There were dissenting cries from the spectators. "Do both of you agree to the terms of the fight?" Gobber asked, glancing between Hiccup and Stefnir.

"Yes," Stefnir answered, narrowing his eyes and standing straighter.

"Agreed," Hiccup replied. He was hyper-aware of everything, the flexing of Stefnir's muscles and every subtle shift of his stance. Hiccup's heart was beating so hard, he felt it in his throat. If he had doubts, he was passed the point of no return. For Astrid, for their freedom, he hoped he had not underestimated the other man.

"Well, let's get this thing started!" Gobber exclaimed, letting his arm fall in a decisive arc before limping out of the way.

Hiccup swallowed and dug in his heels. He raised his Gronckle Iron shield as Stefnir let out an angry battle cry, charging at him. As much speed and power as he had, Stefnir was no Night Fury, and Hiccup leapt out of the way, dodging the swing of his sword like it was a swipe of Toothless's tail. Hiccup thanked every god he could think of that he had taken the time to train with his dragon in the weeks leading up to match. At least he was prepared; but one evasive maneuver did not a victory make.

Stefnir swung his other arm around, slamming his shield into Hiccup's with a force that rattled Hiccup's bones. The other man threw his body weight behind his shield-arm to knock Hiccup off balance before swinging his sword in a downward arc. The metal of his blade rang against the Gronckle Iron plating.

Astrid had not been exaggerating when she had warned Hiccup of Stefnir's strength. The impact from each of his blows thrummed through every nerve and muscle fiber Hiccup employed to repel him. Every bit of pressure was fueled by a hatred and bitter maliciousness that Hiccup, though he harbored his own dislike for Stefnir, did not return with equal potency. That was one vital difference between fighting Stefnir and fighting Toothless: Hiccup's loyal dragon had never tried to actually kill him. There was a ferocity Stefnir's moves that Toothless had not displayed in their sparring matches. The other man was wild and unpredictable; it made him lethal.

Hiccup blocked a strike aimed at his face, only to notice Stefnir do a sort of half-step backwards to swing the blade at his legs. Hiccup managed to jump back out of reach but he lost his footing, stumbling into the cold stone wall behind him. Stefnir seized the opportunity, casting his shield aside and sprinting at him with his sword clutched in both hands to run him through. Stefnir's brutality had taken over, learned behavior from years of fighting dragons. Hiccup could see himself reflected in his opponent's eyes, no longer human, but prey every bit as dangerous to Stefnir's ideal future as a dragon would be to his physical well-being.

Hiccup's breath caught and he allowed his knees to give out, dropping to the ground and hearing the screech of metal on stone above his head. He did not take the time to analyze Stefnir's next move before rolling out of his vulnerable position at the other man's feet. He leapt back up to a standing position, spinning around with his shield raised in time to block another lethal blow meant to take off an arm.

Stefnir rose up to his full height before throwing his weight behind his sword, trying to force Hiccup's arm to buckle under the force of it. Admittedly, Hiccup's arm was shaking as he pushed back with all his strength. He gritted his teeth and continued to resist, beads of sweat breaking out across his brow. He took a chance, stomping down on Stefnir's instep.

The other man howled and recoiled, hopping back with puffing cheeks, incensed.

"You're never going to win this," Stefnir snarled. "Run and evade—that's all you know how to do! You're a slippery cuss, I'll give you that: but I'll take your head off before you so much as cut me!"

"Mm, wanna bet your marriage on that?" Hiccup cocked his head with a sardonic pout. "Oh, wait…"

Growing up with a cousin like Snotlout, he was no stranger to threats of bodily harm, no matter what Stefnir claimed he would do to him. Hiccup took advantage of Stefnir's lapse of concentration, too caught up in all his posturing and taunts. Hiccup threw all his weight behind his own shield, driving it into the other man's broad torso with his shoulder. Stefnir staggered back a couple of paces and Hiccup deployed the grappling line contained within his shield's center hub.

The cord tightly wound itself around Stefnir's legs and Hiccup flipped a small switch along the shield's rim. The line started to reel back in, yanking the other Viking's legs out from underneath him. Stefnir fell hard, gasping as the wind was knocked out of him. Sword still firmly gripped in his hand, he was not quite vulnerable enough. Hiccup released the cord when it grew tight and was no longer effective at pulling Stefnir's dead weight.

There was a mixed reaction from the crowd above. Most of the village seemed to be cheering Hiccup on, if only because he held the advantage and mobs were fickle; but a fair number of Stefnir-supporters shouted their protests, laced with a few creative obscenities.

Stefnir sliced through the grappling line with a sharp jerk of his sword. He was still untangling himself when Hiccup swung the Dragon Blade, cutting the other man's bicep cleanly, and not too deep.

With a furious expletive, Stefnir sprung out of Hiccup's reach, hand clapped over the oozing gash. Blood overflowed his bracing hand, trickling in thick rivulets down his arm, running between his fingers and knuckles, pooling in his palm curled around his sword's grip.

Hiccup inclined his head. "First blood."

"You miserable, cheating son of a b—!"

"One sword, one shield of our choosing. That's what we agreed to," Hiccup reminded him. "This happens to be the one I chose."

"Good thing this is not first blood then—not that I was ever going to stop it there," Stefnir growled. "And good thing you don't know how to hit! This is barely anything worth mentioning!"

Hiccup narrowed his eyes. Stefnir's breathing was labored, and his shoulders were tense. The corner of his lips turned down in a grimace, and tremors ran down his wounded arm. Whatever brave face he put on was a matter of pride. He could jeer all he wanted about Hiccup's inability to cut deep, but that strike had been deliberate. Tactical.

Stefnir's power would be diminished in that arm. His dominate arm.

Hiccup could not overpower him, but he could outsmart and incapacitate his opponent; defensively offensive, requiring as little effort as possible for maximum damage. How few hits could he manage before Stefnir yielded to him?

That was the real conundrum.

Stefnir shook off his pain, resorting to his two-hand grip again. He charged at Hiccup, raising his sword and providing another, wonderful opportunity. Hiccup knew his next best move was to disarm Stefnir somehow, so he fired the small bola from his shield and it connected with Stefnir's blade, sending it flying halfway across the arena.

Stefnir's shout of rage was drowned out by the surrounding tumult—cheers or boos, Hiccup did not care. He seized the opportunity to go on his cautious offensive. He ran towards the other Viking, but Stefnir dove for the shield he had discarded earlier. With the tip of his foot, he kicked it up into his hand and flung it like a discus. Hiccup deflected it with his own shield, but the distraction had given Stefnir the head start he needed to recover his sword.

He fumbled with the bolas, trying to free his blade from the ropes. The more he wrestled with it, the more frantic and uncoordinated his efforts became.

Hiccup charged. A well-aimed, stinging cut to the bend of the knee would give Stefnir another disadvantage—but he anticipated his move. Dropping his own bound-up sword, Stefnir jumped out of the way, narrowly missed by the Dragon Blade. He reached out and seized Hiccup's forearm in a vice-like grip on the upswing. Hiccup's heart seized, and he tried to wrench free to no avail.

Holding Hiccup's sword-arm in place, Stefnir grabbed the Hiccup's shield with his free hand. In one fluid motion, he pulled it from Hiccup's arm. Then, he swung the shield through the air, hitting Hiccup hard across the forehead with a sickening crack before swiping it back in the opposing direction for another hard hit.

Spots flew in Hiccup's vision and he felt a sharp, burning sting ripple across his head. His brain seeming to throb in his skull. Blood gushed down the side of his face. His head was foggy and he teetered on his feet, disoriented. He was aware of his shield clattering against a distant stone wall, but he succumbed to the shooting pain as Stefnir bent his other arm back in a crippling hold. The Dragon Blade was ripped from his fingers and he dropped to his knees. He was at the mercy of Stefnir's merciless grip and the aching spasms in his left shoulder, coursing up from his twisted arm. Vulnerable and reeling from the blow to the head, Hiccup could not defend himself from the knuckles that connected with the side of his face, digging into the ridge beneath his eye with an unforgiving ferocity that felt as though his cheek has been bust open.

He felt Stefnir release him as he toppled onto all fours, blinking the microbursts of light from his vision. A vaguely familiar voice—one of his friends, perhaps—shouted, "GET UP!"

Hiccup reached up to feel the fresh laceration on his temple, raw and sticky, bleeding freely. He lowered his hand and glanced down at his fingertips, slick with red, before glancing up at Stefnir, in possession of the Dragon Blade and his own sword.

_Shield! _Hiccup needed to get to his shield.

His head was feeling fuzzy and the cut on his forehead pounded as he rose to his feet.

Great. Stefnir hardly needed another advantage, tall and brawny, and armed with two blades.

Hiccup noticed his shield was lying a couple of yards from where the other man stood. He darted forward and Stefnir lunged at him, but without his shield, Hiccup knew he was outmatched. He had no choice but to evade, twisting his torso as two swords swung at him mid-sprint. The Dragon Blade missed, but Stefnir had greater reach and the second sword caught Hiccup right above his left hip. The yelp was automatic as Hiccup clamped his hand over his newest injury. His own touch was searing and his grimaced, feeling new, warm dampness spreading through his tunic.

Stefnir had him on the run and they both knew it. The arrogant grin chasing him spoke volumes of the other man's confidence, of the victory that must already be playing out in his head.

Hiccup threw himself to the ground, snatching his shield as his shoulder skid along the rough stone. He barely had time to lift the thing before Stefnir was on him, thrusting and driving both weapons where Hiccup was lying, deflecting each blow by the narrowest of margins.

"Give it up!" Stefnir taunted as swords clashed with Gronckle Iron. "If you surrender now, I promise I'll let you keep your other leg!"

Hiccup pushed back on his hands, somersaulting away from the other Viking while kicking out with his prosthetic leg. He could not feel the contact, but Stefnir swore and as Hiccup righted himself, shield raised, he caught a glimpse of the Dragon Blade sliding across the ground.

His eyes flickered to the sword then back to Stefnir, eyeing him with a clear challenge. They were frozen for half a tremulous breath.

Hiccup moved first, scrambling for his weapon as Stefnir bounded in parallel step.

Hiccup was growing very lightheaded, the gash in his head pulsing to the same rhythm of his racing heart. He could feel his hair clinging damp and sticky to his forehead; and light seemed brighter with a very fuzzy, diffused edge. Almost dreamlike. His tunic felt soaked above his hip, blood encompassing more fabric and seeping down into the waistline of his pants.

He managed to grab the Dragon Blade with an unsteady gait, and he heard Stefnir cackle as he lost his balance. The other man continued to attack as Hiccup remained fixed to the wall for support. He swung his sword to parry Stefnir's blows while avoiding the other blade. Sparks flew when the older man missed, sword rasping over stone.

"I've decided I don't want you to die, not that I could really get away with killing the chief's son," Stefnir said, swinging and stabbing, unconcerned with the repeated strikes against Gronckle Iron and stone. If it was a game of attrition, he had the upper-hand. "It will be more satisfying to keep you alive, so you can spend rest of your life watching Astrid and I, together."

Hiccup sneered and with a labored grunt, he collected some manner of strength to push off the wall and throw Stefnir back. As he stepped around the older man, and flourished the Dragon Blade, delivering a nice, clean cut to the top of Stefnir's thigh.

Hiccup squinted his eyes to examine the dark stain spreading over Stefnir's leggings from a safe distance. Fine details were blurry, but the injured thigh quivered. Stefnir moved in shuffling steps, taking sharp, hissing breaths between clenched teeth.

"You persistent little shit!" Stefnir spat.

"This can all be over…if you just…yield," Hiccup panted, the throbbing of his head injury making him go cross-eyed. Those two, powerful blows to the head and jostled his brain and he felt nauseous.

"You first!" Stefnir snarled.

He aimed another swipe at Hiccup's side but the Dragon Blade parried. Stefnir then braced himself on his wounded leg, delivering a strong kick to the Gronkle Iron shield before he buckled with cry, unable to support himself any longer.

Hiccup was thrown back into the heavy door that once confined Hookfang. His head connected with solid metal and his vision went totally black for a moment. He shook his head, his sight returning in hazy colors and shapes.

"You know, I take it back. How about I chop of your other leg so you have a matching set?" Stefnir growled, rising to his feet, his injured leg shaking. He hobbled forward, no less deterred.

Hiccup tried to make sense of his double vision, knowing he had no more tricks left in his shield that would be particularly useful. Sure, the shield could transform into a makeshift crossbow, but he had no arrows or comparable projectiles to fire. There was a tiny catapult at the top, but what was a small rock going to do, even if he had one?

He only had one option left, remembering the way Hookfang burst from his pen frenzied and aflame. Stefnir advanced, sword raised, and Hiccup glanced down at the Dragon Blade in his left hand, praying to Odin Allfather, as his strength and lucidity were failing him. His coordination and balance were already pitiful, at best.

Stefnir reached out and grabbed him by the throat, pinning him against the metal door. Thick fingers clenched around Hiccup's windpipe and he coughed.

Stefnir leveled the tip of his sword with his face and whispered, "You should have yielded to me when you had the chance."

"Still…have my trump card…" Hiccup muttered.

His thumb rolled over a switch on the Dragon Blade's grip. Inside the hilt, there was a small striker—two pieces of flint colliding to make a spark filtered through an opening at the base of the blade. It connected with the metal, coated with a fine sheen Monstrous Nightmare saliva that had painted the inside of the sheath before the match. The sword caught fire, and Hiccup pressed the blade flat against Stefnir's arm. The other man recoiled, releasing Hiccup's neck, howling in pain from his shiny, blistering new burn.

"W-What is _that?_" Stefnir snapped, cradling his arm against his chest.

Hiccup slid up the wall by degrees, rubbing his throat.

"Inferno," he replied.

There had been a time Hiccup through his idea was too lofty, fueled by unrealistic expectations of himself and well-meaning enthusiasm. He had been at a loss for how to ignite metal—but dragons were his inspiration, and dragons had been the solution. Monstrous Nightmare saliva was a persistent substance. It clung to nearly any surface, always highly flammable. Almost as soon as Hiccup had completed the prototype, he imagined a retractable blade, like Toothless's fangs, coated with Monstrous Nightmare spittle as it was pulled back inside the grip. All brilliant ideas, all to be explored contingent upon him walking out of the arena in one piece—or rather, as many pieces as he had first walked in with.

_"A flaming sword?"_ Stefnir roared in disbelief.

Hiccup imagined him pale and wide-eyed. "You sound…surprised," he replied, managing a smug grin.

"I don't care what pathetic little invention you use," Stefnir retorted, but there was a waver in his voice, and Hiccup did not need perfect vision to know eyes were darting to the Dragon Blade.

He staggered forward and their swords clashed again, but it was not like before. Stefnir was not as ruthless. His attacks were not as deliberate. Under his opponent's mask of fury, Hiccup detected a glimmer a fear and awe every time he swung the Dragon Blade. Stefnir was more on the defensive than he had ever been. His own sword moved in quick swipes to parry. He did not attempt to overtake Hiccup as they moved into the center of the arena. His posture was less bold, his injured arm and his leg were hindering free range of motion on top of it all, and the flames of Inferno kept him on edge.

Whenever he did try to attack, it was careful and hesitant. His movements were awkward as he tried to combine both offensive and defensive swordplay to avoid another burn. He was fixated on the blade and was not paying as much attention to Hiccup, like the sword was its own disembodied entity.

Hiccup's weaker swordplay skills were compensated by Stefnir's fear and distraction. Inferno was doing its job quite well. He was not on the run anymore, and he finally had a moment to think. He had the other man handicapped on his dominant side, and disarming him was the surest path to victory before Stefnir could grow accustomed to a flaming sword; before he figured out a way around it.

Hiccup focused in on Stefnir's blade, glinting with sunlight as it swished and sliced through the air to counter him; it had been beating against Gronckle Iron for most of the fight—an hard and durable metal. Hiccup knew well just about every weapon on Berk, having worked on them all at least once. Stefnir had the bad habit of unnecessary over-training and neglecting maintenance. Gobber had offered to treat his weathered blade, reinforcing it, and Stefnir had stubbornly declined—out of pride, perhaps, amid his demands for the wedding. Or because he did not see the utility in paying for what he believed could be remedied with a few grinds against a whetstone? If it broke, he could by a new one without blinking.

Yes, Hiccup knew that sword; he knew where it was weak; he knew in that moment how to win. Thank the _Æsir _for whatever threads of fate had tied him to Gobber's mentorship in his youth.

Hiccup lowered his sword, discarding his shield, giving Stefnir the chance to strike. The other Viking did not hesitate, thrusting his blade forward without restraint. Hiccup stepped out of the way and bent his free elbow, catching Stefnir's arm in the crook of his own. He would only be able to hold the larger man for a moment, but it was all the time he needed.

He took a deep breath and raised Inferno above his head.

Years of working in a smithy had trained his muscles. He might not be a wonder of weightlifting, but he had a mean downswing. Squinting to unite all the swords swimming now in his vision, he brought the Dragon Blade hard, deliberate, and calculated against the offending weapon, about three to four inches from the tip where it was structurally weakest. The strike came in as comfortable and fluid motion as wielding the smithy hammer he had pounded against molten iron for hours on end. Stefnir's blade shattered into two distinct pieces—the main body and the broken tip—falling from his outstretched hand.

Hiccup nearly laughed in relief. The gods were being uncharacteristically nice to him.

Stefnir wrenched his arm free from Hiccup's, staring at him, dumbfounded. Hiccup knew, in the back of his muddled mind, the crowd had been watching the entire time, but he had managed to tune them out in favor of concentrating on, well, _not dying_. In that moment, perhaps because he and Stefnir were equally startled and momentarily stunned, Hiccup's brain was not racing through the hase. The deafening cheers of their audience seemed to assault him in one, sudden cacophony. He and Stefnir continued to stare one another down.

Had he won? Was the fight over?

"Yield?" Hiccup asked, head spinning.

Stefnir glared at him, fists shaking with rage—or rather, Hiccup assumed that was what he saw. His opponent was becoming an more indistinct figure by the minute. He blinked and shook his clouded head.

Then something barreled into him with what felt like the force of a dragon.

Hiccup barely registered that Stefnir had tackled him before he felt an intense, stabbing pain in his right shoulder. His cried out in agony. The pain immobilized him. The older man had him pinned to the ground and was driving a jagged shard of his broken sword deep into his shoulder. There was no coherent thought in Hiccup's mind other than how much it _hurt._ A splintered blade was spearing and twisting through sine, with a white hot pain that extended down to his fingertips. To further incapacitate him, Stefnir used his free hand to grab a fistful of his hair, slamming his head against the stone for good measure. Hiccup's vision went black and his brain felt scrambled. He made a feeble attempt to sit up, but the world swirled around him and he fell back against the ground, writhing.

"Did you really think the fight was over?" Stefnir snapped. "Just because you broke my sword with your dirty tricks? Here I thought you had the decency to fight fair."

"Not…tricks," Hiccup groaned. "Strategy."

He did his best to swing left arm, to attack with Inferno, but he only managed graze Stefnir's bicep. The other man yowled, but as he twisted the hilt of the shattered blade embedded in Hiccup's flesh, something in the shoulder gave. Hiccup's right arm felt limp and separate from his body, like a dead limb stitched to him. Inferno clattered to the ground as Hiccup's left hand clamped down on Stenfir's wrist.

Stefnir seized the blazing sword, brandishing it in the air.

"I told you I didn't care what pathetic invention you used! You're done. You know it. I know. _They_ know it."

Unintelligible shouting came from the spectators above, but it was as if Hiccup had his head underwater. His blunt fingernails clawed at Stefnir's arm, sticky with dried blood, sweat, and all his effort.

Hiccup glanced up at him, and his vision flickered like a candle on the verge of burning out. Two Stefnirs had him pinned with identical wicked grins.

Oh, dear Odin. One was enough.

Hiccup whimpered, closing his eyes. That was how it was all going to end. His right arm was paralyzed and he was too weak, too defeated to do anything more than moan for his opponent to stop; to show him some semblance of mercy.

He had been foolish to think he stood any chance against Stefnir. No matter how much "Hiccup flair" he threw at the other Viking, there was no denying that he was never going to be a fighter on the same scale as Stefnir Svenson. He had been outmatched from the start. Stefnir had been born and raised to fight in a time before peace, and he did it well. Hiccup's inventions had bought him time. They drew out the _holmgang_ and had made it interesting for the spectators. But, in the end, it did not matter. He deluded himself from the start. Everyone had tried to warn him, but what choice did he have? What choice did Astrid have?

Stefnir was going to defeat him with his own sword. Maybe take an arm off. He hoped it was the right one. He was quite partial to his left hand. Ambidexterity did not mean he lacked a dominant side.

He laughed inside.

Why was that so funny? Was he delirious?

His head. Oh, how it was hurting. _Ow_. The gash on his forehead was still painful, too; sharp and begging for what remained of his consciousness that he did not have to spare.

"This is for you, Astrid!" Stefnir shouted from what sounded like a world away.

Astrid. She was watching. Hiccup felt a stab of sympathy, or was that just the blade in his shoulder? He could not tell anymore. But Astrid had been counting on him. He had been carrying both of their futures into the fight, only to fumble them. They were going to be happy, had he won. He had thought they had a chance, but she was going to watch him lose; she was going to have to marry Stefnir and spend the rest of her life with him, have his children.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way," Stefnir gibed.

Hiccup didn't think he sounded sorry at all. He wondered if the gods would let him into Valhalla if he bled to death after Stefnir was done with him. Was that a good enough warrior's death? Maybe the other seventeen years of his life would not count against him?

Hiccup gave another mental chuckle. Damn, his head really hurt. Stefnir had done a number on him with his shield earlier. That had been the deciding factor before the fight even concluded. Things went downhill from there.

Wow, his head. That shield. Damn.

_The shield!_

Hiccups eyes snapped open. Stefnir was poised above him, sword raised above his head, the dancing flames on the tip of Inferno Hiccup's only sight guide. Everything seemed to slow down.

Hiccup glanced at his right arm—the arm rendered useless by Stefnir's twisting blade fragment. His Gronckle Iron shield was reflecting the sunlight just beyond it: the only real detail Hiccup could make out. His left arm shot across his body, grasping the shield loosely as Inferno began its downward arc. His eyes then darted to the general, unprotected vicinity of Stefnir's lower abdomen and groin. In the blinding pride of impending victory, Stefnir could not see his mistake. There was only a split second to react, taking advantage of his opponent's fatal confidence.

Hiccup gathered up the last remaining bit of strength he could muster, and slammed his shield into Stefnir's stomach and groin, not quite sure where it hit, but certain it landed somewhere sensitive.

Stefnir yelped and dropped the Dragon Blade. Hiccup felt the heat of his beside his face. The older man curled in on himself until his was one solid, dark mass in Hiccup's vision—blending colors and shapes, filtering between glaring light and shadows. Hiccup then pushed himself up as best he could with an immobilized arm. Adopting Stefnir's earlier strategy, he rammed the shield into the underside of the other man's jaw, like iron uppercut. Stefnir coughed and sputtered, and his weight was gone, the broken sword no longer sinking into muscle.

Flailing with b;ind determination, Hiccup swung the Gronckle Iron shield one last time, and it connected with the side of his opponent's head. The impact was displaced throughout Hiccup's body, agitating his aching head. The great, black, lump of Stefnir toppled sideways onto the ground. He tried to collect himself, rolling on to all fours.

Hiccup, fueled by nothing but grit, scrambled to his feet, feeling the ground undulate underneath him, knees trembling. Right arm useless, he picked up Inferno with his left hand and stumbled over to Stefnir who was still reeling from the blow to the head, or groin, or both. He flinched as Hiccup approached and held up his hands in a defensive manner.

"Do you yield?" Hiccup murmured, holding Inferno in a loose grip. He felt the blade rattling in his hand.

"What—?" Stefnir rasped.

"Do. You. Yield?" Hiccup asked him more forcefully, moving the blade closer to his skin for emphasis.

Stefnir cowered back from the flames.

"Astrid isn't yours," Hiccup said. The Dragon Blade almost slipped from his weakened fingers. "Say it and end this."

"Fine," Stefnir conceded, strained, still rigid and defensive. His voice sounded thick, and he spat on the ground, tick and copious; blood that Hiccup could not see. "I yield! You can have her! More trouble than she's worth! Fuck you! Fuck her! I'm done with this yakshit. Just get the fuck away from me. I'm done. _Done._"

Hiccup wished he had some shred of energy or clarity to whoop and celebrate his victory, for he had just won everything—but his body was failing. What good was winning then if he did not survive it? The world was a dizzying wheel, spinning ever faster, and he bent forward, hands on his knees.

Somewhere far off in some dark vacuum, Gobber declared. "Hiccup wins the _holmgang!"_

There were cheers, there were boos. Hiccup could not tell which were more numerous. He felt himself begin to sway on the spot. He reached up and grasped the hilt of Stefnir's sword that was sticking out of his shoulder. Even a tiny jostle of the blade drew a hiss from his throat.

He took a deep breath, and pulled it free. Blood ran hot and unencumbered from the wound, and his breath came in short gasps that irritated the cut on his side with anything more than shallow inhales. Inferno fell from his hand but he did not hear it hit the ground. In fact, he no longer heard anything aside from the frantic hammering of his heart in his ears.

He broke out into a cold sweat. He glanced up at the crowd, hoping to Thor someone recognized how much trouble he was in. For a moment, he was adrift, weightless. He was knew aware he was falling before he was swallowed up by a mute blackness.

* * *

Astrid had not moved for what felt like an eternity. She might as well have been fused to the stool, pulled up alongside Hiccup's bed. The moment he had hit the ground in the ring, she was pushing through the dense crowd to get to him, feeling the bile rise in her throat. Stoick's voice boomed over the scene, calling for the healers. and time sort of ran together after that.

The sunlight filtering in through the open window had changed from the soft brilliance of morning to a harsh, reddish glow, casting long shadows on the walls as particles of dust swirled through the setting sunbeams. A flurry of activity had shunted Astrid back against the wall while healers descended on Hiccup like a bunch of vultures. Astrid had felt as though she was watching the aftermath of the Red Death all over again, complete with bloodied rags thrown over shoulders onto the floor with urgency, and the pull of black thread being fashioned into stitches. Both times, Stoick had gruffly suggested she leave, and both times, she had stayed under the guise of that she was curious about medicine. In all actuality, she felt she owed it to Hiccup.

Or so she told herself, to make amends. All those years she had been cold to him, and he had sacrificed everything for a village that had mistreated him. Three years later, he had endured Astrid's self-serving head games, only fight on her behalf, _still_ in love with her despite all her selfishness and shortcomings. She was indebted to him—all of Berk was for the Red Death incident and the peace he had championed—but Hiccup would never collect. He suffered and forgave. Resilient, but thankfully out of it for the worst, most immediate part of his healing.

In both instances, three years ago and the present, he would mumble something as the healers worked on him. He was delirious and slipping in and out of a vague consciousness he would not remember.

"Stop", "please", and "hurts" were all Astrid could ever make out, pressed back against the wall, well out of the way with her fingernails digging little crescent moons into her face.

The first time, she had left after he was stable. Stoick had remained by his side with Toothless, Hiccup's watchful protector. Nobody neared the injured boy without clearing it with the dragon and his father, first.

Three years later, not much had changed. The Night Fury had been brought in as soon as Hiccup was no longer critical. The dragon was beside himself, warbling his lament over his human's injuries, distraught when Hiccup did not wake for him. With a doleful whimper, Toothless curled up at the foot of the bed. There, he remained immovable and despondent, head lifting only when someone entered the room.

Stoic often checked in. He would nod to Astrid before approaching his son, placing a large hand on Hiccup's bandaged forehead with paternal tenderness. He never said anything, only lingered for a moment before stepping out again.

Astrid and Toothless were the constants, though encroaching nightfall meant Astrid would have to return home and face her parents, whom she had been avoiding since the end of the fight. Though, what was there left to be sad? A facetious, "I hope you're happy now," would not undo the _holmgang._ Their frustration could not rebind Astrid to Stefnir now. They could not promise her to someone else when, by all legal accounts, she "belonged" to Hiccup. Really, what else could they, or anyone else do? The _holmgang_ had been fairly fought and decisively won. Astrid had every right to sit by Hiccup's bed, avoiding the fallout in the village—gossip upon more gossip she did not care to hear.

She had Hiccup's hand in hers, squeezing it to elicit a response, but none came. Not a twitch, nor a reflexive curl of his fingers. She sighed, heavy and resigned, scooting closer to the bed and rousing Toothless with the scrape of wood. The Night Fury studied her as she brushed Hiccup's filthy bangs from his face. That earned her a faint groan, but his eyes remained closed. His head fell to the side and his brow furrowed. Astrid cast Toothless an inquisitive glance, but he approved of her efforts, dropping his head back to his claws.

"I don't think I'll ever understand you," she said to Hiccup, and he was still apart from slow, steady breathing. She muttered, "You have such a reckless disregard for your own well-being. Liking you is bad for my health—yours too, apparently."

"Occ…upational…hazard," Hiccup slurred, head lolling on his pillow. His eyes cracked open. He did not look at her at first. He stared at the adjacent wall, blinking.

Astrid let out a short, elated burst—a gasp of excitement that brought Toothless to his feet. The Night Fury bounded to the head of the bed, warbling excitedly. Hiccup broke out into a tired smile, reaching out for his dragon.

"Hey bud," he murmured, his passive hand sliding over black scales and Toothless nuzzled into his touch. "Good to see you." Green eyes turned toward Astrid, and a little more life and clarity returned to his face. "Hey…"

"That's all you have to say for yourself?" she asked, suppressing the urge to swat him in his battered state.

Hiccup frowned, squirming and wincing as his injuries made themselves known. He touched his fingers to his forehead, hissing and withdrawing them at once. "Ow?" he offered, voice a weak rasp. "Feel like I got run over by a pack of Gronckles."

"Stefnir really did a number on you," Astrid replied. Her hand fell to his bare chest, fingers wandering over freckled skin. She felt his heart beating beneath his fingers and she would have laid her head down on him, were he not so hurt.

"Oh. So, same thing, basically." His sarcasm was a welcome sign of recovery, still pale as he was. His left hand came up to grasp hers with all those familiar callouses. "Did I win?" he asked.

Astrid was taken aback. She cocked her head, eyes narrowed. "You don't remember?"

"No. The last thing I remember is getting knocked in the head by my shield. The details are fuzzy after that."

Astrid laughed wryly. Shaking her head, she told him, "Yes. You won. Stupidly. Impossibly, but you did it."

Hiccup smiled. That time, it reached his eyes. "Good. Stefnir will leave you alone, then."

Astrid huffed, pulling her hand free to fold her arms. After everything—their affair, the grief, his injuries—his priorities were still skewed. They always had been, from dragons to relationships, but there was something so charming in it.

And infuriating.

"And we'll be together," she said, because it was never about her misfortune or his, and who was more in need of rescuing; it was always about them and what they had to potential to be.

Hiccup laughed, then grimaced as the cut in his side made itself known. "That too," he replied, stroking Toothless. Then, with great effort, he sat up, swearing under his breath the whole way. The Night Fury gave him a boost, growling with concern, but he was an enabler. Astrid rolled her eyes, because whatever the most advisable course of action was—like ample rest—Hiccup was going to do the opposite.

"Am I missing anything? Any parts?" he asked, surveying his body.

Astrid wrinkled her nose. "I hate to tell you this, but your left leg is gone."

Hiccup stared at her. "Funny." He then glanced down at his right arm, immobilized in a leather sling and sighed, eyes dulled..

"Stefnir tore up your shoulder pretty bad," she explained. "They say you'll have to keep your arm in a sling until the muscles heal. Then it'll take some working with it to get the range of motion back."

He nodded, initial distress morphing into that willful determination. "I'll manage," he said. His gaze flickered to hers. "How…how are you?"

"_Me?_" Astrid remarked, incredulous for the second time. "I'm not the one who nearly got an arm hacked off!"

"I-I mean, with your parents!' he clarified, left hand held up in appeasement. "The Svensons…I can't imagine there won't be some backlash."

Astrid scoffed. "It doesn't really matter what they think anymore, does it? The _holmgang_ means I'm free from that arranged marriage. What _they_ want doesn't really matter unless you broke up with me, for some reason. I'm fair game if that happens."

"Break up with you?" Hiccup mused, as if the words were foreign. "A-After all of _that?_ Wh—_why_ would I ever—?"

Astrid smirked, rising from her stool to sit down beside him.

"So you aren't completely brainless. Good to know, if we're going to have a real shot at this."

The corners of his mouth twitched. There was something intently warm in his gaze, unaffected by the pain and damage Stefnir had inflicted on the rest of him. Flesh marred, his heart remained unscathed. He took Astrid's hand in his with an awkward reach across his body, since his right arm was useless.

"I think I would really like to kiss you—with impunity, that is. Finally," he said.

Astrid gave him a coy little shake of her shoulders, but leaned in anyway. She snickered, "Look at you, all banged up. I don't know. I might hurt you…"

His fingers along her jaw stirred up all kinds of delicious static beneath her skin. "I've had worse."

Their lips met and Astrid's eyes fluttered closed. Unable to really touch him anywhere, one hand feel to his knee while the other fisted in his hair, mindful of the bandages. It felt like the first real kiss they had ever shared—it was not a chaste peck of bashful children, and it was not laced with guilt and regret. The kiss was honest and untainted. Astrid felt a giddy rush as the realization hit her that it was over. Everything. All the unpleasantness leeched out of their lives through the blood Hiccup had spilled for her. For them. She could not have fought for him. She could not erase the lies that had crushed him, nor the anguish of a mutually supported misery. All they could do was move forward, for the path was completely open to them. The past two years had never happened. Who was Stefnir Svenson? Hiccup could have just beaten her in a dragon race, for all she knew, and the kiss was an exhilarated congratulations—like it always should have been, like it was always meant to be.

Like it always would be.


End file.
